


There and Back Again

by Cornelius_Podmore



Series: There and Back Again [1]
Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AKA ball of rage w/ great hair meets tiny smol bean, Eventual Smut?, F/M, Maybe - Freeform, Thorin Oakenshield Fanfiction, lots of rage, umm, who is also full of rage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:27:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 42,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7151198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cornelius_Podmore/pseuds/Cornelius_Podmore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin Oakenshield is in need of a burglar, and assigns Gandalf the task of finding one. But much to Thorin's surprise, Bilbo is not the only one Gandalf has recruited. Evaine was one of the last children born in Erebor before it was taken by the mighty Smaug. Orphaned by the disaster and deserted by her dwarf kin, she is taken in by the Elf leader Thranduil, who raises her with a firm and not-always-gentle hand. Summoned to the Shire by Gandalf, but left in the dark as to the reason why, she seizes the chance to escape Mirkwood and unknowingly involves herself in one of the greatest stories ever told, for better or worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Evaine made her way through the treetops, carefully analyzing each sound she heard and eliminating it as a threat. The clothes she wore, like her, were made for jumping through the trees. On her wide feet she wore cloth slippers, so thin that she could still grip the limbs with her toes. Unlike most women of her time she wore tough, cloth trousers, nearly skin-tight so as not to get tangled in the branches. Half-concealed under a light cloak, her armored chest plate fit snug to her chest. It was solid bronze, not shiny enough to be ostentatious, but gilded from top to bottom with what looked like scales; and it ran from her hips up to the neckline, where it cut off just below her collarbones.

It came from the long-abandoned dwarven city of Erebor, from which, at one point, had flowed all of the jewels and riches of Middle-Earth. Dwarves are skilled crafters, especially of all things metal, and her armor had come from an era of the greatest metal-smiths the realm had seen before, or since. King Thranduil had given it to her for protection, for it was said to be stronger than dragonhide. Not even an Elven blade could pierce it. She cared little for the king’s sentiment, but she kept the armor anyway, as a token of her lineage.

She was, in fact, a dwarf, one of the last children to be born under the mountain. The chest plate that she wore had been her mothers. But, upon getting news of the dragon’s attack, she instead placed it over the child in her arms, over Evaine. Her father perished defending the kingdom, and her mother survived just long enough to carry her to safety, in the low lands around the peak, before dying of a wound on her chest.

Thranduil had found her under the chest plate in the aftermath while he and his men were scouting the outskirts of the kingdom, and promptly took her in. She did not once mistake this for an act of kindness. Thranduil merely wanted a token of his fallen rivals, nothing else. He had not given the chest plate to protect a daughter, but to protect an investment, a souvenir.

It was partially for that reason that she fled Mirkwood just moments ago. Perhaps fleeing was the wrong word, for she was permitted to come and go as she pleases, as Tauriel and Legolas were. It was only if Thranduil learned her true purpose for leaving that he would stop her. And her reason was this: She had received word from Gandalf several days ago that he was in desperate need of assistance, and that she was to come as quickly as possible. As Thranduil and Gandalf were not historically on the quaintest of terms, she was sure he would not approve.

Of course, Gandalf was her oldest and closest friend, and so he needn’t ask twice for help. It was only the location to which she was to report that had thrown her off. She was to travel west, to the Shire, the land of hobbits. Hobbits were generally peaceful folk aside from a love for mischief, likely the most peaceful creatures in all of Middle Earth; so she wondered idly what sort of trouble he could have gotten into there. Nevertheless, she set off without hesitation. From the western edge of Mirkwood it was nearly 300 miles to the Shire.

This would be her first time away from Mirkwood without the king or his men looking over her shoulder. Exhilaration and apprehension made her chest flutter, but she did not let it take her over, send her back to her glittering prison cell. Instead, she allowed herself an excited smile before taking off into the trees with all the grace and familiarity of a squirrel, the safety of Thranduil’s stronghold far behind her.

 

 

Evaine was short, practically a child amongst the full-grown elves; but she was actually quite large for a dwarf, almost five feet tall. What she lacked in size compared to her Elvish peers, she made up for in her strength, unlikely speed and grace, and her ferocity. She was muscular and curvy, so much in fact that you would never have assumed her to be as graceful as she was. Her hips and shoulders were wide, made to look even wider in contrast to her tiny waist, and her short legs were toned and muscular.

She gripped a branch and swung down to the ground, the only audible proof of the action coming from the pair of twin daggers she kept strapped to her thighs. She tied her fiery red hair up quickly with a ribbon, beginning to feel the unnatural heat of the forest.

Mirkwood was certainly an accurate name. The wood was an object of fear for many creatures all across Middle Earth. Countless dark creatures rest in the forest, and await mortals who wander off the Elven Path; and Dol Goldur, the infamous stronghold of the fallen dark lord Sauron rested at the southwestern tip. The very air of the forest reeked of illusion, easily pulling weary travelers into a daze and luring them away from the Path. It had been years since Evaine feared the dark power of the forest, and she often strayed from the Elven Path of her own will, as she was doing now.

She could see a break in the trees up ahead. There was an unnatural light—or perhaps it was natural sunlight, for she had only ever existed in the murky light of the enchanted forest. Yes, pure sunlight. Another step and she would be farther from her captors than she’d ever been since her time at Erebor all those years ago. She took it without hesitation.

The warmth of the sun was far more pleasant than the sticky, unchanging, heated shade of Mirkwood. When a cloud rolled across the sun it got colder, only slightly, and then once it had gone it was warm again. The air moved in a way that swept her hair from her face and cleansed her mind and for the first time since she was a kid, she felt what it was like to have a clear head. She had not grown immune to the forests magic, she had grown _used_ to it. She had merely learned to function while breathing its poisonous air.

The air filling her lungs now was clean in a way that was painful at first, but so crisp and sweet that she was determined to grow used to it. She’d only come close to this sort of clarity when she was hiding from Thranduil’s guards. She would climb high in the trees, higher than the elves dared to go, and she would poke her head through the foliage. Though the air was still that of the Mirkwood forest, carrying a sickly sweet scent, she could see for miles.

For a moment, only a moment, she decided not to deny herself a simple pleasure, and she laughed. It had to be the first time she had really, truly laughed since the days of her parents, and she giggled like a child. She threw her hands out, allowing herself to be swept into the rhythm of joy, and twirled around, throwing her face up at the sun as she let go, if only for a little while.

When and she had finished frolicking, she drew a map from the leather pouch on her back and examined it, trailing her fingers over the places where the ink had warped the paper. Finding her way out of the forest had taken less time than she had estimated; it could have been no later than noon. The Misty Mountains would be her biggest obstacle, rising proudly in the west, a strong barrier between the eastern lands and the land of Hobbits. The most regularly traveled mountain pass was at least 100 miles south of where she was standing. Safer though it was, Evaine didn’t have time to go that far out of the way. Not even she could travel that fast. She would have to make her own trail.

She looked west. The Misty Mountains were at least a day’s journey ahead. She rolled the map back up and tucked it away. She would have to stop for supplies in Gladden, mainly just food for the road; and if she wanted to make it into the mountains by midnight, she would have to move quickly. Finding that the air only got cleaner as she got farther away from Mirkwood was all the encouragement she needed, and as she set off she wondered what it felt like to breathe the air of the Shire.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Gladden was the first human civilization she had seen in her life, and she observed everything with wary, but amused curiosity. The way people moved and talked was graceless, shouting profanities at each other in the streets. Children ran wild, assaulting each other with stiff water reeds from the Gladden Fields and shouting battle cries. She felt oddly comfortable in the chaos of it. 

It was clear that the town was thriving on the fruit of the Anduin River. Though the people were bent from their hard work, their hands marred with scars and callused from being used without relief, the general mood in the market was merry. Men returned from the river with fish by the barrel, their wives laying them out one by one and gutting them on ramshackle tables whilst talking animatedly with customers. Merchants waved battered cloaks and worn work boots in the air, shouting bargain prices. The old salesmen could tell in a matter of seconds that she had come from Elven lands, and that meant that she had no shortage of money. 

“Those slippers are hardly the material to be travelin’ in, Ma’am. I bet I got boots to fit ya just right!” A robust, middle-aged man offered.

“Fish fresh out of the River, m’dear. Don’t get no sweeter than that!” Said a withered old woman from her stand. 

She kindly refused their offers, making her way up the street.

“Ah, what brings you this far West, dear?” Said a plump, stern-looking woman. “You’re one of those that comes from the forest, right?” 

She was running a small stand, with miscellaneous items scattered across a sturdy wooden table.

“I am.” Evaine said, smiling graciously and running her fingers across the woman’s merchandise. 

“Bit short for an elf, eh?” She said with a smile, “What brings you here?” Evaine could tell by her tone the woman was watching her reaction carefully, probably deciding whether or not Evaine was up to any trouble. 

“I travel west on a quest, of sorts. A friend of mine is in need of assistance.” She smiled graciously again, assuring the woman that she was no threat. The woman looked slightly impressed, and smiled back. 

“An honorable deed, for someone so young. Travelin’ all that way to help a friend in need.” She said, wringing her hands in a small, dingy handkerchief. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, with wisps of grey hair fraying around her face. 

“I would like to think so, yes.” Evaine said, flashing a kind smile. Something caught her attention, a flash of silver under a woven blanket on the table. She pulled black the blanket to reveal a twin pair of fine silver swords. “These are of Elvish-make.” She pointed out, feeling the finely gilded handle in her hands, and looking to the woman. 

“Thought they might be.” The woman said gruffly, “Not exactly my area of expertise.” 

“Stolen, more likely than not.” Evaine said, raising an eyebrow at her. The woman shrugged. 

“Don’t know nothin’ bout that, Miss.” She said, “I just sell what I got. Man passing east through the mountains sold ‘em to me for a meal. He got cheated on that one, Elvish blades are worth a pretty penny among all sorts of folk, well worth a couple of fish.” 

Evaine examined the blades thoughtfully. They were in pristine condition. She looked back to the woman. 

“I’m in need of a hefty meal before I set off, as well as food for the journey. Give me that and I will buy your blades for a more than fair price.” She retrieved a drawstring pouch from her back hand laid a handful of gold coins on the table. The woman looked from the gold to Evaine, wide eyed, and then quickly concealed it in her apron pocket and let out a bewildered laugh.

“Gracious, Miss!” She said in a low voice, “For this much gold you can have my house and my husband with it!” She cackled again and took one of the coins out, making sure no one was looking, and examined it. “Aye, I’ll feed you. Supper won’t be ready for at least an hour. Nothin’ I can do ‘bout that, I’m afraid, but I’ll have you on your way soon enough. You can bet on that!” Then, still quite flustered, she rushed into her home and, Evaine guessed, started on a meal. With that taken care of, Evaine returned her attention to the swords.

The blades came with a sheath that strapped them to her back in a large X shape, with leather straps that went around her shoulders much like her bag did, so that the blades were easily accessible. She put the sheath on and slid the swords into their place, then put her bag on over it, finding that the sheath was not very bulky at all and that her bag would not interfere with the swords, should she need to retrieve them in a hurry. 

She had nearly an hour to peruse the market, and making her way back up the street, the offers started up again. 

“I can get you a barrel of fish nearly free with a purchase, ma’am.”

“Freshest fish in town!” 

Several voices shouted to her at once, talking about the cheapest, finest, and freshest goods this side of the Misty Mountains. It was a quiet, small stand that caught her attention, though. Sitting at it were two twin girls, with strawberry blond hair and dingy dresses. The man in the larger stand beside them was watching them carefully, probably their father. His merchandise consisted of broken tools, soggy timber, and cloth scraps of varying size, color, and quality. It was clear that neither of them were doing particularly well in comparison to the merchants around them. 

“And what are you two selling?” She asked, squatting to their eye level and examining their table. They both perked up, delighted to have a customer. Their father perked up, too, for his business was doing no better than theirs. 

“Jewelry.” One said eagerly. 

“Fine jewelry,” The other corrected importantly, “Straight out of the Gladden Fields.” 

Evaine smiled, and picked up a bracelet. Simple brown fisherman’s twine was woven together around little, polished, colored bits of what looked like the sea glass Evaine had often seen in jewelry worn by elves from the western seas. 

“And you made all these?” She asked, giving them an astonished look. 

“Yes, ma’am. The river washes them ‘til they get rounded down like that. Those is the natural colors and everythin’. We just polish ‘em.” One of them confirmed while the other nodded fervently, as if Evaine would think them to be untruthful. Out of the corner of her eye, Evaine saw their father smile at their behavior. 

“You know, all my years in the elf kingdoms and I don’t think I’ve ever seen jewelry as fine as this.” She said appraisingly, winking at their father. The girls beamed at the compliment. 

“Thank you, miss!” Said the more talkative one. The quieter one seemed to be growing impatient with their small talk.

“Are you going to buy one?” She asked, unable to contain herself any longer and earning a glare from her sister.

“Edith! That’s rude!” The sister admonished in a hushed tone, and Evaine couldn’t help but smile. 

“I believe I am.” Evaine said decisively. She reached into her pocket and gathered half a dozen gold pieces, handing three to each girl. They looked at the gold as if they weren’t sure if it was real, first, and then with ecstatic wonder when they felt the weight of it in their small hands. 

“Is this-” One of them tried to ask, but Evaine held her finger to her lips, silencing them. 

“Thank you for my bracelet.” Evaine said, with a secretive smile. “Now go show your father what you got.” With that, she made off with her bracelet before the father could refuse the gold, for he might not accept such an outrageous act of charity. Though Gladden was not particularly poor, a handful of gold would still pay for at least a month’s dinner, which was far more money than most people would accept from a stranger. 

She found little else in the small marketplace that piqued her interest. She found a nice, soft quilt that she liked, and then purchased a boy, around 11 or 12, a wooden toy sword after his water reed broke. Evaine quite enjoyed being generous. It was another thing that set her apart from Elves, who were not exactly notorious for their compassion. Then again, maybe that was why she liked it so much. 

Bringing gold was merely a precaution. The mountains were the only place where she would not be able to hunt and gather her food, for any good game that dwelled in the mountains was eaten by far more sinister creatures than she. Anyways, she would like to treat herself to a good hot meal wherever she could find one. Even if she had to purchase something, she had brought more than enough gold for anything she could imagine she needed. Plus, she liked these mortals; she found their clumsy, uncouth, joyous behavior charming. She liked to see them smile. 

Finding little to entertain her in the market, she was now sitting by the woman’s stand, talking to the boy (he informed her that his name was Henry) as she waited for her finish fixing the meal. 

“Are your swords real?” The boy asked, jabbing the wooden blade of his toy sword into the mud. 

“Very much so,” She said, retrieving one to show him but holding it back when he reached out to touch it. “But it’s sharp, you mustn’t touch.” He nodded and she pulled it out for him to see. 

“Can you fight with it?” He asked, looking at it carefully. 

“Well enough, I suppose.” She said, smiling. 

“What d’you need swords like that for?” He asked her. 

“It never hurts to be careful.” She said, putting back in its sheath. “You never know what kind of horrors you could encounter in these mountains.” 

“Woman shouldn’t have to defend herself.” He remarked, disapprovingly. 

“Oh,” She said, grinning again, “I would argue that a woman shouldn’t need defending at all.” He thought about this for a moment, as though it confused him, and then smiled. 

“That’s pretty good thinkin’, miss.” He said, “I never thought about it like that.” 

“You better run along, I think your friend is waiting for you.” She said, pointing across the street, where a boy the same age as Henry was standing, brandishing his water reed and motioning him over. 

“That’s my best mate, Wess.” He said, and then his eyes lit up, “I better show him my sword! He’ll be tryin’ to get his hands on this for weeks!” 

“I want you to share with him, Henry.” She said, pulling out her most authoritative voice. He grinned. 

“I will, miss. No worries.” He said, “We’ll be proper fighters by the time you get back over those mountains. I’ll even get myself a real sword!” 

“And I’ll pray that you never have to use it.” She said. He nodded, though not fully understanding her words, and ran to Wess, showing off his sword. 

“Supper’s just about ready, dear.” The woman said from behind her. She gave a quick nod and entered the tiny house. 

There was surely nothing elegant about the little shack, but she found herself instantly warmed by the roaring fire, and studied every corner and crevice of the room. There were no walls to separate the small, rickety bed from the dining table, or the rocking chairs in front of the hearth from the kitchen. The four walls that were available were covered in cooking utensils, various pelts of small animals, and a wide array of fishing supplies. 

“You can have a seat at the table there,” She said, glancing up for only a second before she continued her work, chopping greens on a scarred cutting board. “Marvin’ll be in from the Fields any moment now.”

“You’re husband’s a fisherman?” Evaine asked, still looking around in wonder at the haphazard beauty of the house.

“‘Bout the only work there is to be doin’ around here.” She said, finishing up with the greens and dumping them into a steaming pot in the hearth. “Other’n sellin’ to travelers like yourself.” 

It was clear that the woman was busy, and Evaine let the conversation melt into comfortable silence, interrupted only by the crackling of the fire and the boiling of whatever was in the pot. 

“Do you need any help?” Evaine asked after nearly five minutes. The woman had finished cooking and was now bustling around the table setting plates and silverware. 

“Oh no, dear!” The woman said firmly, “You’ve been too generous already.” 

“Jeanne?” Came the voice of a man from just outside. Just then the door opened and in came a thin, balding man in heavy river boots. “Fixed supper already? It’s barely after five!” 

“We’ve got a guest, dear.” The woman said, rushing over to greet her husband. Evaine heard their whispered conversation and the jingle of gold as Jeanne explained the situation. When he seemed to understand, they both made their way over and he sat down directly across from Evaine at the table, examining her warily. Evaine supposed wariness was the primary instinct when living in a place so often visited by strange travelers. 

“So you’re from the Forest?” He asked, “Pardon my sayin’, Miss, but you look a bit short to be comin’ from those woods.” She supposed she should have expected comments like these. Her clothes and weapons said elf, her height and general body type did not. She smiled anyway. 

“Yes, I hail from Mirkwood, from the kingdom of elves.” She said, ignoring the comment about her height. It would be best not to give away too much about herself. “I travel west to help a friend.” 

“Oh!” He said, raising his eyebrows in mild surprise, “Awfully kind of you. It’s dangerous in those mountains, all kinds of strange folks wonder in and out, never seen again more often than not.” 

“They’ll be no talk of that now, Marvin.” Jeanne reprimanded, shooting him a look. “The food’s ready.” 

The main course was, naturally, fish. Since fish was really their only source of meat, people of Gladden had apparently gotten pretty creative with ways to fix it, and Jeanne had certainly aimed to impress. The fish was cooked until it was so tender it nearly fell apart on the plate, held together only by the thin layer of breading on the outside. The breading had an interesting flavor, full of strange spices and sauces that she would never have been allowed under Mirkwood’s strict diet. Apart from this, there was bread of a sort that she had never tasted before, and a creamy soup full of greens and more spices. It was quite an extravagant meal, though Evaine wasn’t overly fond of the beverage they had provided. In Mirkwood, they drank nothing but water, and during celebrations, wine. This drink they called Ale was bitter and sour. The drink itself made her mind fuzzy and her body numb, and the taste of it stuck to her tongue long after it was gone. She left more than half a mug full when she could stand it no longer. 

None of them talked until they were done eating, a very unusual tradition for her because, as elves eat very slowly and sparingly, they conversed regularly during dinner. She enjoyed the silence. After dinner was done they had tart, made from a type of berry that was completely foreign to her, but just sour enough to keep her eating until, between the three of them, most of it was gone. 

“Better be getting off soon, hadn’t you dear?” Jeanne said with finality, standing up. “I imagine you’ll want to get well into the mountains by nightfall.” 

“Yes, I should be leaving soon.” Evaine said, “If it’s no trouble, I’ll collect my food for the road and be on my way.” She nodded obediently and excused herself to retrieve several rather large fish, already prepared in the same way as the one she had fixed Evaine for supper. She wrapped them in multiple layers of a strange, slick-like paper that effortlessly contained the greasy juices of the fish without absorbing them entirely. 

“Now, that should get you well through the Mountains without trouble.” Jeanne explained, “Mind you, it gets a bit gamey if it’s left unkempt for more than a couple of days, so move quickly.” Evaine took the fish and tucked it away in her pack, fitting it snugly with the map and her other supplies. “I hope that’s enough.” The woman fussed, genuine worry coloring her features. 

“This is more than satisfactory, thank you.” Evaine said, offering a smile, “I only wish I could stay and help you clean.” She gestured to the litter of dirty dishes crowding the table.

"It’s no problem at all, dear.” The man jumped in, wrapping an arm around his wife. “You’ve been more than generous.” The woman game forth, suddenly, and enveloped Evaine in a strong hug. Evaine did not reciprocate at first, plain shock freezing her in place, as she had never been hugged before that she could remember. Then, when she realized that the gesture was meant to be affectionate, she wrapped her arms tightly around the woman, overwhelmed with abrupt emotion. 

“You take care of yourself, Miss.” The woman said gruffly, letting go.

“I shall.” Evaine said with a dazzling smile. “Bless you both.” 

Her final goodbye being said, she set off up the rapidly quieting road, in the direction of the Misty Mountains.


	3. Chapter 3

The Misty Mountains looked much more manageable on paper. That was her most recurrent thought as she walked and climbed and never seemed to move. The journey was arduous, to say the least, and on more than one occasion she wondered if it would have been easier to take the mountain pass, but she refused to let it ruin her mood. 

The night was cold and clear, not a wisp or puff of cloud in the sky to block out the magnificence of the galaxy that hung over Middle Earth. She was still relishing the luxury of untainted air, and it only got cleaner the farther she went. She was also still relishing in her newfound freedom. Gandalf was the only person in the world who knew both who she was, and where she was going. There was an excitement in the danger she was facing, in that she didn’t have a squad of Thranduil’ elf servants following her every move, and, as macabre as it may seem, in that she could die out there and there would only be one person who would know. She found the loneliness of the world as refreshing as it was sad after having her every move watched by the elf king. The only thing that unnerved her was the silence, the incredible stillness of everything, it seemed, but her. Not a single bird or insect had made a noise since she had properly entered the Mountains and that could only logically mean one thing: She was not the only one making her own path that night. Whether it was ahead or behind her, she did not know, but it definitely wasn’t close, or she’d have heard it by now. Her hearing was always one of her best assets; not even Legolas and Tauriel could tail her without her knowing. Wherever it was, there was at least a mile and a half between it and her, probably more if it was large, like a mountain troll, or if it was more than one thing, like a pack of Orcs. 

Still, she glanced warily around her, careful not to make a sound, before gripping the lowest limb of the nearest tree and effortlessly lifting herself from the ground. It took her seconds to scale the large tree, for, since it was an evergreen, the branches were much closer together than the trees of Mirkwood. She moved as high as she could, peering above the foliage in all directions, searching for a hint, the whisper of a distant voice or the glow of a campfire. All she witnessed was the rhythmic, silent swaying of the trees, in rhythm with the barely present breeze. She would not risk traveling on the ground for now.

Though it was more strenuous, traveling in the foliage was much faster, safer, and quieter. She moved like a ghost through the branches, finding comfort in the familiarity of the trees, even though they were far different from those in Mirkwood. Her body went into autopilot as she moved forward, her brain focused fully on her hearing, dissecting every whisper of wind and scrape of branches that met her ears. 

Evaine found nothing that night to cause alarm. When she was sure she was not in immediate danger, she sought out a place in the trees to rest for the night. The branches of evergreen trees were small and scraggly, she would not find one branch that was large enough to hold her comfortably. She gathered timber from the forest floor, the sturdiest fallen branches she could find, and laid them across two close limbs high in the tree. It took several layers of sticks to create a structure sturdy enough to support her, and several more layers of pine needles and foliage to make it comfortable. Now, lounging for the first time since she left Mirkwood, eyes already heavy from her meal in Gladden, she managed to pull herself into a wary sleep. 

**********

The first noise that greeted her conscious mind was the chattering of birds, the first conscious feeling was the warmth of the newly discovered sun on her face. She stretched and then became silent, listening for any sort of suspicious noise, but all seemed well. Whatever had been with her in the woods previously had moved on without her. 

Her years of scaling trees in the Mirkwood forest had prepared her well for the laborious journey, for there was barely any tightness in her bones, and though her ramshackle wooden throne was hardly the luxurious hammock that awaited her return in Mirkwood, she had slept quite well. By the suns position and the slight chill lingering in the air, she figured that it was about nine o’clock, early enough that she had time for breakfast. She dismantled her seat and scattered all the remains, save a bundle of sticks that she would use to fuel her fire. 

The flame caught on quickly on the bed of dry pine needles and she warmed one of her three fish impatiently, finding that her hunger for mortal food was only increasing. As she ate, she looked around the forest. Nothing but trees could be found in either direction on the thick slope of the mountain, but she knew that soon enough, she would run out of forest to conceal her. Higher in the mountains would be nothing but thin, rocky ledges and treacherous caves. It would also be colder, but she did not fret that. Her cloak was not a traditional one, it behaved more like a jacket. Instead of wrapping around her shoulders there were sleeves, and while a cloak remained open in the front, most likely calling for more clothing underneath, hers clasped with little silver hooks and had a large hood that more than adequately shielded her face from the weather. 

It was, obviously, of Elvish-make, and made especially for her, as no one else wore such things. She was the only one who requested trousers that were skin tight right down to her ankles, the only one who required a thigh-length cloak with sleeves because, otherwise, she would not be able to carry her bag (and now her swords) on her back. To the humans, she was clearly Elvish, short or not, but she was as foreign to the woodland elves as Hobbits were. 

She stopped, suddenly, still as a statue. Noise, the snap of twigs and the sudden shuffling of foliage as if something were bounding clumsily through the trees, shoving branches from their way. It was far too close to be coincidental. She had gotten lost in her own thoughts and forgot to check for sounds. She had let whatever it was get, by her estimate, right on top of her. 

It was certainly traveling in the trees behind her, and not doing it very quietly. It seemed to become aware that she had stopped, because the noise ceased. She kept moving, as if she had heard nothing, and soon enough the noise started again, this time faster. It was quickly gaining on her, she had no time left. Her hands went to her daggers, unsheathing them as she turned and readied herself, prepared to scan the trees. At the same time, she was tackled from above, knocking both her and her assailant to the ground, one on top of the other, and sending them rolling forward down the steep slope until they were stopped by the wide trunk of a pine. 

She opened her eyes to see the pale, slimy face of an Orc, watery eyes wide in shock. Its teeth gnashed uselessly as it let out a strangled, guttural noise. She glanced down to see both daggers protruding from its chest, a sickly black ooze leaking from the wound, and when she looked back up, it had gone completely limp. She shoved it off easily, briefly noticing its crudely sharpened blade a few feet from where they both landed. She must have knocked it from its hands as they fell. Disgusted, she placed one foot on its chest to hold it down and yanked her daggers from its flesh, wiping the ooze on its dingy cloak. 

She returned her daggers to their sheaths and looked around warily. Orcs never traveled alone, this one was most likely with a larger pack. As if in answer she heard the distant, hideous howl of a Warg, less than half a mile away and approaching rapidly. Wargs were the large, vicious canine creatures that Orcs used for transport. Evaine took to the trees, for there was no time for anything else. She was nearly at the end of the wood, once that was gone there would be nothing to conceal her from the Orcs. She would have to lose them now or kill them all, and she didn’t like her odds of either.   
She waited in tense silence for the pack to come into view. Soon enough, they topped the hill. Orcs were vile creatures in general. Fat bodies sat upon bowed legs. Long, thin arms and round heads with watery, black eyes and a flat nose. Their skin was sallow to the point of translucence, their bodies often mutilated almost beyond recognition by their value of violence over reason, even amongst their own people. Nothing could persuade an Orc like the promise of bloodshed, and they had a particular hatred for both of the races to which she belonged. 

There were only three, two of them on Wargs, and one trailing behind, scanning the forest. It and the one she’d just slain must have been scouting. They were definitely alert, scanning the woods warily for any sign of life. Their suspicions were only confirmed when one astride a particularly malicious-looking Warg spotted their fallen kin. It shouted something in a language she didn’t understand and pointed to the body on the ground no more than twenty feet directly below her place in the tree. The largest Orc, apparently the leader of its company, left its Warg unattended to examine his dead associate. As he approached the body, she realized she had already made her decision to attack. 

Her dagger was free from its sheath before her brain had even caught up and in one swift flick of the wrist it was sprouting from the head of the leader’s Warg, quite a distance from where she was perched. She was out of the tree before it even found the will to screech, plummeting through the branches to the forest floor, free falling toward the lead Orc as it was perched over the body of its fallen kin, unaware. Its head snapped up as the Warg let out a wail and tumbled to the ground, lifeless. She whipped one katana blade from its sheath just as her feet met its wide shoulders and drove the sword into its head. There was only a moment’s struggle before it fell. 

As soon as her feet hit the ground she was moving, drawing her other sword from its sheath. The scout, who had caught up by now, was the first to attack. It came at her wielding a large battle axe. It was a crude, heavy instrument, and so the creature’s reaction time was poor. She had removed its head before it could even properly swing the weapon. The remaining Warg was her biggest threat, running straight at her as its rider shouted orders at it. She ran forward, her swords held at the ready and when it was almost upon her, she got the lift she needed from a very convenient boulder that was budding from the ground and forced both swords into the top of its head and forcing it down with all the strength she could muster. This sent the Orc on its back flying straight into her and knocking her off her feet. 

Though disoriented, her hand immediately went to her remaining dagger, as both her swords were still lodged in the Wargs head, only to find it missing. She grabbed the Orcs wrist just in time to keep her own knife from piercing her throat. This did not discourage the Orc, who bared down on her with all of its weight, growling things in its guttural language, its lips curling over his jagged teeth. She wouldn’t be able to hold out for much longer. Orcs never went without weapons, so why then, was it using her knife? She struggled to look at her surroundings. An Orc blade lay nearly ten feet away. 

She gathered what was left of her strength and used it to force the Orc backward, letting out a roar of frustration. When there was finally enough space between the two, she brought her foot up and landed a kick straight to its chest, sending it flying backward with a painful grunt, still swinging her knife blindly. She took this chance to retreat—or to make it look as if she were retreating—and scuttled backward in the direction of the sword. The Orc regained its footing, letting out a malicious snarl as it advanced, dagger in hand. She waited until it was within range and just as it was about to land the blade in her head, she whipped the Orc blade from underneath her and made a quick slice at its legs before driving it straight through its unprotected chest. It let out a screech of fury and pure desperation as it tried to free itself, swinging her dagger blindly as its open mouth dribbled black ooze onto her armored chest plate. It was at least a minute before the creature finally died, all the while screaming through its own blood. 

She avoided its eyes, nothing but pity in her expression for the creature, reduced to nothing but raw fear in the last moments of its life. She was repulsed by Orcs just as much as any sane creature would be. It was killing things in general that displeased her, an aversion that she’d had since she was a child. Taking lives had always upset her, and such is the cruel irony of fate that she was burdened with an immeasurable talent for it. 

She glanced up from her thoughts, suddenly remembering her situation. Her energy was nearly spent, but she had managed to catch her breath in the time that she was down. She pushed the Orc away from her, ripping fabric from its thin cloak and wiping the blood from her armor, disgust plain on her face. There wasn’t much she could do about the bodies. Burning them would only attract attention, and it wasn’t as if she could move the Wargs anyhow. She would have to leave them where they were. 

She retrieved her weapons quickly. The Orcs had wasted a great deal of her time, the sky was just taking on the colors of dusk. Returning her knives to their sheaths and securing her swords on her back, she made off. She would be out of the forest by nightfall, then there would be only rock to shield her. Not even a week into her journey and she was already leaving a trail of bodies in her wake. She thought grimly of how many more would die before she saw this quest finished.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw// Sexual assault and/or unwelcome sexual advances

Thankfully, the Orc pack was her only problem in the Misty Mountains, and she found that her schedule had only been slightly skewed by her complications. Gandalf would have taken into account any possible delay when he had notified her, and she was sure that if the situation he faced were truly, mortally urgent, he’d have called on a much closer ally. Still, she moved with great haste. She found that the animals of these lands were more difficult to catch than the creatures of Mirkwood, faster somehow, and more agile. Though she had obviously never had to catch her own food, or rely on her skills of hunting and tracking, she always liked practicing in the wood. She had never planned to stay in Mirkwood anyway, and from the age of 18 (practical infancy in the life of a dwarf) she had been actively preparing herself for life outside the forest. It was her adoptive brother, the true son of Thranduil, that had taught her to fight, and as elves were not slowed by the heady air of the wood, he had more than prepared her for the outside world. It appeared to be her hunting that had suffered the most. She had been spoiled on the slow-moving creatures of the Mirkwood forest, and her stomach was now very audibly reminding her. 

The unforgiving terrain of the Misty Mountains was behind her, leaving a landscape of trees and dollops of squishy green earth rising above the rest in the form of rolling hills. It was much calmer, tamer, and happier than the wild lands of the east; but she was in the northernmost part of the realm of man, and men were more dangerous in their stupidity and rage than any Orc, goblin, or elf. She thought it best to skip the villages altogether, but she would not get far at all with her meager food supply. She had consumed what was left of the fish nearly twelve days prior, and she was not able to kill more than a few squirrels and a sickly pheasant since, with hardly enough meat on the lot of them to last her two or three days, much less the week and a half she feared she had before she reached her destination. She was learning fast the art of hunting these animals, each kill proving a bit easier than the last, but for now, she would need to find another source of food. 

She came upon a small village, not even a day’s journey from the foot of the mountains. Though it was a sort of parallel to Gladden, she was hard-pressed to find anything similar between the two. Through its shabby exterior, Gladden was a quaint place, full of clumsy, straggling, but no less vibrant life. The huddle of shanties she was entering now had no name, and was not nearly as welcoming. It wasn’t so much a village as a permanent gathering of undesirable-looking folk. Streets, if they could be called as much, ran with slop, sewage, and discarded food. The wealthiest citizens were the merchants, and even though they were faring better than the others, they were still the lowest of peasants by any other city’s standard. These were the ones that looked the most sinister, with slick smiles, glittering eyes, and clothes bleached of color. The others just seemed mean, tired and sad to the point of anger, with crumpled, dirty faces and scarred flesh.   
They all watched as she walked by, surveying her and her clothing with nothing but contempt, and she kept her head high, hood up, eyes forward. She adopted a harsh look about her out of self-preservation. She felt no ill will for these people, but she was not so sure they would return the favor. If she looked aggressive they might feel less inclined to initiate an altercation. She had the sudden urge to be anywhere but there. Were it not for her grumbling stomach, she could have avoided it altogether, but her need for food was growing more urgent by the minute, as her last meal was more than two days ago. 

Reluctantly, and with her hands hovering constantly over the chilled metal handle of her daggers, she ducked into what looked to be the single legitimate building in the small town, and undoubtedly the most popular: the pub. It was only one room, with a large bar taking up the length of one side, but in it she found most of the town’s men, all roaring with laughter or singing a slurred song. It was the only merry gathering she could ever see happening in a place as broken as this, and it was merely because they were all too intoxicated to feel otherwise. The raucous noise fell to whispers and appreciative glances as she walked straight to the bar, expertly avoiding a hole in the rotted flooring. 

“What can I do fer ya, m’lady?” The bartender asked, looking at her in a way that made her teeth grind against each other. 

“The best meal you can provide.” She said shortly, throwing a gold coin onto the table. The clattering sound it made as it rolled and fell flat on the rough bar top probably rang through the entire village in the greedy silence of the men surrounding her. For a moment, she was worried they would all dive for the coin at once, but no one moved. She could feel all eyes on her, save the bartender who was examining his prize with all the sudden scrutiny of a merchant. Once he deemed it authentic, he looked to her. She returned his gaze levelly and after a moment, once he was finished sizing her up, he gave a mannerly bow and excused himself to prepare the meal. As soon as he was gone she could feel the crowd gravitating toward her, and she stiffened. 

“You must be one o’ them . . . elven girls, am I correct?” One of them said, putting emphasis on the word ‘elven’ so that a chorus of mocking oohs and ahhs followed. She turned around and faced them squarely. 

“Of a sort.” She said icily. “Who needs to know?” One stepped forward. His clothes and appearance were unremarkable, but something about him made him stand taller than any other man in the room. It was an overabundance of confidence. The stench of it seeped from his skin in the form of alcohol, overcoming the smell of filth and poverty that otherwise would have lingered there. 

“That’d be me.” He said, strolling forward and coming to a stop about three feet from her. His eyes wandered unashamedly over her body, following every curve he could see, and she resisted the urge to pull her cloak tightly around her. 

“And why, sir, has a simple traveler piqued your interest so?” She asked, raising an eyebrow and regarding him with bridled disinterest. 

“Just common curiosity, Miss.” He said innocently, “These men have heard tales of elf women all their lives. Beautiful, elegant, successful in all their . . . physical endeavors.” A unanimous chuckle ran through the crowd as lust-filled eyes examined her. 

“Watch yerself, Gideon.” One of the men warned. “Those pretty little knives are fer more than jus’ decoration.”

“Oh, I’ve got a blade I know she’ll take kindly to.” The one called Gideon said, provoking another roar of catcalling and banter. 

His implications made a tidal wave of fury shoot up her spine, her body almost jerking from the force of her anger, and she felt something brewing in her chest, a power the likes of which she had never felt before. With a feeling like hot oil it threatened to boil its way into her throat and out her mouth, the pain so great she nearly cried out. She reigned it in with all her strength, suddenly fearing what might happen if she let it free. 

“Miss?” The voice sounded as if it came from far away, though the bartender stood right in front of her as she turned around. She leaned heavily on the bar, clearing the white spots from her vision. Exhaustion was apparent from the sweat on her brow. “Miss? Miss, are you alright?” She could feel the heat of the bodies behind her they were so close, their stench nearly making her gag. 

“Fine.” She said, catching her breath and attempting to steady her voice. “My meal?” 

“S’all here.” The man said gruffly, still watching her intently. 

“I’ll be taking it with me.” She said, her voice finally retaining its earlier strength. “Will you be so kind as to wrap it for me?” 

The man grunted in reply and retrieved a cloth from somewhere behind the bar, wrapping the stale bread and cured beef together. She realized how close the men had gotten, slowly closing in on her as she talked with the barkeep.   
“What’s it gonna be, Missy?” The one named Gideon murmured, forcing himself against her so his pelvis was flush with her behind. Drops of foul-smelling spit rained against her face as he whispered, his scraggly beard scrubbing her ear. “Does the Elven girl think too much of herself to entertain a mortal such as me?” 

Driven by the feeling in her chest, already threatening to burst outward, she drove her elbow into his stomach. The blow forced him backward against a nearby table, giving her just enough time and space to retrieve a dagger in one hand, a sword in the other. She held the sword at his throat while the dagger went to his groin, placing just enough pressure on his thigh to rip the fabric of his trousers and draw blood. For the first time the crowd was quiet, save a murmur of intrigue as they all stumbled as far away from the weapons as possible in the tiny room. 

“I do not invite your attentions, Master Gideon.” She spat his name, “Nor will I tolerate them. Understood?” 

He winced, glancing from his leg back up to her, his eyes narrowed in pure hatred.

“Understood.” He said, running his tongue along his bottom lip, still staring at her. 

“Excellent.” She said, the anger giving way to a sort of levelheadedness. She was sure to nick his throat—only slightly—as she pulled the sword away. “You’d do well not to move until you are far from the reach of my blade.” And then to the barkeep: “I thank you for your service.” She took her meal from the bar and made her way out the door and into the night, unable to hide her smirk as a cacophony of laughter and mockery at Gideon’s expense picked up as she left. 

The exhilaration she felt pushed even the thought of weariness from her head. The anger she had experienced was like no other she had felt before, and with it came a sense of power. She strongly felt that were she to let her fury take hold, she’d have been able to take on every drunkard in the pub. She was not sure of the source of this power, but she was drunk on it the same as if it were alcohol. It frightened her, actually, how much she wanted to experience it again, especially when it had come on so sudden, so fiercely. She had not felt even a hint of anger when the Orcs attacked, so whatever this was, it was a recent development. She was barely able to control it over a simple drunk, what happened when real danger came her way? 

She sighed, stretched, and picked up the pace. The farther this town—and the next one, for that matter—was behind her by the time she had to turn in for the night, the better.


	5. Chapter 5

The remainder of her journey to the Shire was unbearably uneventful. Evaine spent most of it in silence, pondering the source of the strange new anger that had presented itself. It had not appeared again since that night in the pub, but she found that it had not quite gone away either. She often felt something, a presence in the center of her chest wriggling around like a mouse in a trap, trying to break free. It troubled her, naturally, but she had more pressing matters to attend to, for she had finally reached her destination. 

Ahead of her, the Shire rose like a ray of pure sunlight, casting a warm glow upon all the lands around it. The very earth there seemed to be laced with magic. It was good magic, though, not the sort that ran through Mirkwood’s waters.   
Even as she approached it she was certain it was easily the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, for it was not mysterious, or prestigious, or powerful and elegant like all of the Elven halls and cities she had stayed in. It was humble and honest. With hobbits riding buggies up and down the gravel roads, carrying loads of freshly-picked strawberries or quilts to sell at the markets, and greeting every person they pass as if they’ve known them their whole life. There was not a hobbit in sight that wasn’t smiling. 

And the hobbits themselves were funny little creatures. Smaller even than dwarves, they stood about three-and-a-half to four feet tall on big, hairy feet, with round noses, rosy cheeks, and pointed ears. 

As she moved forward, the now-setting sun shined on the vibrant green hills, flecked with wildflowers . . . and burrowed in the ground, she noticed, were the hobbit holes. Little houses buried under the hills with cheery, round front doors poking out of the side, usually flanked by window boxes overflowing with flowers. 

Evaine’s mood could not help but be improved as she wandered though these lands, when the orange light of dusk was casting shadows. She felt her fatigue setting in already, for she had been on the move almost constantly for the past few days, but she journeyed on. Distantly, she heard the roaring waters of the Brandywine River, the official border of the Shire. She wanted to at least cross that before she turned in for the night. 

Evaine woke feeling more refreshed than she had in days. After crossing Brandywine Bridge, there was a small inn to be found. Evaine did not like wasting her gold on such unnecessary accommodations, but she nearly had to drag herself across the river last night. She was not as well prepared for the mission as she had originally thought, for though her hunting skills were improving quickly, game had been surprisingly scarce in the darker lands between the Misty Mountains and the Shire, and she was hardly able to catch enough to keep her alive, much less healthy. She was not getting the nutrition she needed, and if someone like Gandalf needed help, she was going to need all of her strength. 

The Bywater Inn was no more than an oversized cottage run by a lady named Beryllia Diggle. She was a wide-shouldered and solid woman with a mess of strawberry-blonde curls pulled back in a hair tie. Her youthful smile and brilliant blue eyes did not match the age that showed in her hands and her lined face, neither did her rosy, dimpled cheeks or wholesome golden skin. She was quite beautiful, in her own way, and it was her face that greeted Evaine when she woke.

“Ah! Good morning, dearie!” She said brightly, clapping her hands together, “I believe a good night’s rest was just what you needed! Pardon my sayin’, miss, but you looked somethin’ awful when you came in las’ night!” 

Evaine smiled in spite of herself. She found the hobbit’s honesty charming. Elves were always so caught up in manners and tact. It was exhausting. 

“No, no that’s quite alright.” Evaine smiled, stretching and sitting up. She hadn’t even bothered pulling the bed sheet over her the night before, or even taking off her armor. She merely collapsed onto the small cot and was asleep almost instantly. “I’m sure you’re right about that.” 

She sat up, letting her fingers get caught in the braid that she had tied her hair in days ago, unraveling it slowly. She was in earnest need of a bath. 

“I wouldn’t worry ‘bout it though.” Mrs. Diggle flashed a toothy grin. “If Mr. Diggle expected me to look my best all the time I’d ‘ave left him years ago.” Evaine tossed back her head and laughed. “As I should’ve of course. Never trust a man who don’t look anything past your face, dearie. Never.” She said, bustling around retrieving fresh linens to fix the small bed once Evaine got up. She raised a bushy eyebrow. “Not that tha’s the first thing they look at anyway, if you catch my drift.” The old hobbit paused and seemed to remember herself, and let out an exasperated laugh. “Oh, never mind me, lass. Crazy old woman talking her head off in your bedroom. I’m sure you’d like to wake up in peace.” 

Evaine gave a gracious laugh. “No, I find it quite comforting actually.” She said, getting off the bed so that the lady could do her job, “It’s awfully quiet on the road, and such an awfully long road to travel. I’m glad to be in decent company.” 

She frowned at her reflection. Dark circles had appeared under her eyes, her pale skin had lost what little color it had, and a thick sheen of grease was accumulating in her hair. If she looked good today she couldn’t imagine what she looked like stumbling into the inn the night before. A good night’s rest had helped, surely, but a bath and a hefty meal would be what she really needed. 

“Well, either way,” The woman said, remembering her duties. “I’ll let you step into that room there and get yourself washed up.” She led Evaine through a solid oak door into a small, quaint washroom. “I’ve boiled water for a good hot bath—it should be cool enough to get in now—and then I’ll have a big breakfast cooked for you when you come down, how’s that sound?” 

“Exceptional, Mrs. Diggle.” Evaine gave her a kind smile. “I cannot thank you enough.” 

It was clear she took pride in her work, in bringing comfort to others, for she smiled brightly and bowed out to let Evaine undress. 

Evaine took comfort in her cheery surroundings. A round, oak-framed window with frosted glass let sunlight flood the room. The walls were a yellowy-cream color, the floors warm brown stone. A small scratchy oval of dented glass served as the only mirror, and in the center was a beat up, white claw-foot tub that must have been very nice at one point. Overall it was a rather charming set up. 

She stretched, slowly, relishing the feeling of it, before undressing. Once she removed the bronze chest plate, her stomach stretched and coiled almost painfully, not used to this much freedom. She twisted and flexed to work out all the soreness, and then it felt marvelous. She’d forgotten how uncomfortable the armor was. She’d forgotten how stiff and unyielding all of her clothes were until she was out of them, and sinking into the hot water only ensured her bliss. 

The knot in her chest seemed to recede a little with the stress of the past few days. Maybe that’s all it was: stress. Evaine bit her lip. She seriously doubted it, but she wouldn’t worry with that now. She scrubbed her hair with a sweet-smelling soap bar that sat in a metal dish on the shelf, contemplating buying some of it for herself. It smelled like lavender and vanilla, and wasn’t so strong as to invoke a headache, like some soaps often were. 

She stayed in the tub until the bathwater began to cool to an unpleasant temperature before getting out. Feeling cleaner and more rested than she had since her days in Mirkwood, her hunger finally set in with a vengeance. Her stomach growled earnestly and her mouth watered as the scent of hot breakfast wafted up the rickety stairwell. It nearly left her scrambling to get into her clothes, but she exercised control. Making sure her chest plate was secured correctly, her trousers buttoned tight, her still wet hair pulled back into a simple braid, with small strands falling around her face. She made sure her weapons were sheathed, and her bag was ready to go once she’d finished her meal. Then, she let herself be lured down the steps by the tantalizing smell. 

It was very easily the most satisfying meal she had had in her lifetime, almost equivalent to the one she’d had in Gladden. There were little slices of bread slathered with jam made from some sort of sweet berry, and fluffy biscuits with creamy fresh butter on the inside, and links of sausage and piles of greasy bacon. There was not a vegetable in sight, and she couldn’t have been happier. Instead of the nasty ale she’d had to endure in Gladden there was fresh, cold milk in a large mug on the table. She’d never eaten so much in her life, and she noted in her mind that Thranduil probably would have had her executed if her saw her eating this way—with not a manner nor sign of self control in sight—but she could not find it in her to care.

“Thank you, Mrs. Diggle, that was lovely.” She said, wiping her mouth, her cheeks tinged red with embarrassment. She’d finished off almost the entire table’s worth of breakfast, eaten until she was sure the buttons on her pants would snap if she’d kept going. 

“Please, dearie,” The woman took her plate and placed it in a small metal washbasin. “Call me Beryllia. And I’m sure you’ll be on your way now, is that right? Do you need help findin’ anything?” 

Evaine was struck with an idea. 

“Perhaps you can.” She said, reaching down and rummaging through her bag for Gandalf’s letter. Below what he’d written, there was a small sketch of a round door, surrounded by vines with windows on either side, and on the door, there was a strange mark. “Do you know where this is?” 

The woman scanned the image and smiled. 

“My! You folks from the east sure are interested in that fellow, aren’t ye?” She laughed. 

Evaine knit her eyebrows in confusion. “Excuse me?” 

“Well, just the other day a strange man from the eastern lands asked me the whereabouts of the owner of that front door there!” She said, “Funny lookin’ old fellow. Grey robes ‘n a long beard.” 

Gandalf. Evaine leaned forward. 

“Can you show me where it is?” She asked excitedly. 

“Sure as my name’s Beryllia.” The woman confirmed, “Lived down the hill from the Bagginses when I was just a little girl.” She then dove into a set of detailed directions to the door in the image. 

It was barely four in the afternoon when Evaine set out for the Bagginses’ green front door. It was only a few hours’ walk through the Shire, and with the golden sun just beginning to wane over the lush green valley, it was bound to be a pleasant one. Even still, she hurried. She wanted to waste no time in meeting Mr. Baggins himself.


	6. Chapter 6

Evaine had been lying in wait near the Baggins residence, with the green front door clear in sight. Night had just fallen, and she had been ready to engage her target . . . only she found that there was another lurking outside the house.   
He was very clearly a dwarf, for he looked similar to those that she’d seen walking the trails through Mirkwood Forest. Though his beard was plentiful, his head was completely bald, with permanent inked patterns drawn across his scalp as well as all over his hands. He was about her height—tall for a dwarf—and double her size in his shoulders. Very imposing and threatening, his rough facial features were pulled into a grim scowl. He wielded two battle axes, and though they were stowed away, his thick hands never left the handles, so that he would be ready to attack at any moment.

The dwarf walked the perimeter of the home—though most of it was underground—surveying windows and glancing around suspiciously. It was clear he was up to something, and did not want to be seen. Finally, his shadow fell on the round door, his dirty fingers running silently over something that was carved into the wood, then he rang the bell. There was a moment of silence before a very disgruntled looking hobbit opened the door in his night clothes and untied robe. 

“Dwalin,” The dwarf introduced himself, looking the hobbit up and down, “At your service.” He bowed accordingly, but his untrusting eyes never left the one Evaine assumed to be Mr. Baggins. 

The hobbit gaped openly at the dwarf for a moment before remembering his manners. 

“Bilbo . . . Baggins . . . at yours.” The hobbit stumbled over the niceties as he hastily tied his robe. “Er—do we know each other--” Bilbo asked, but Dwalin was already brushing past him into the house. 

“No.” Dwalin said, as if it were a stupid question. And then walked into the foyer, glancing down hallways. “Which way, lad? Is it here?” 

Bilbo still stood in the open doorway, gaping and apparently very confused. It was clear that whoever this quest was, he had not been expected. Evaine saw no sign of Gandalf inside the house. 

“Is what . . . where?” He asked stupidly, and earned another look from the dwarf, who shrugged off his thick coat and tossed it at Bilbo. Bilbo caught it, barely able to hold the heavy garment. 

“Supper.” Dwalin answered, “He said there’d be food.” 

“He—he said?” Bilbo asked just as Dwalin disappeared down another hallway and out of Evaine’s sight. “Who said?”

When the dwarf did not answer, Bilbo cursed under his breath, roughly tossed the heavy coat onto a rack in the foyer, and shut the front door behind him, rushing off to find his unwelcome guest. 

Evaine sat back in her spot in the trees, stumped. What was a dwarf doing in hobbit country? What was she doing in hobbit country? As far as she could tell, Gandalf was nowhere to be found. 

She was convinced that her situation could not get any more peculiar . . . when another dwarf came. This one bore a certain similarity to the one already inside the house, only he was older, with snow white hair. Though older, his disposition was decidedly less threatening than the first dwarf’s, with a wise old face and smiling eyes. 

He rang the bell without a beat, and it was only a few seconds before Bilbo opened the door again, looking less surprised and more aggravated than before. 

“Balin, at your service.” The dwarf said. This one bowed with a flourish and flashed an eye-crinkling smile as he looked at Bilbo. 

“Good evening.” Bilbo said, less than glad to see another dwarf on his front step. Balin looked up at the sky. 

“Yes, yes it is.” He decided, nodding. “Though, I think it might rain later. Am I late?”

“ . . . late for . . . what?” Bilbo asked, bewildered. The dwarf did not answer, but looked down the hallway and greeted the other dwarf. 

“Oh!” He said, and walked past Bilbo. “Evening, brother!” He greeted, but their voices faded as Bilbo huffed and shut the door. 

After Balin, two younger dwarves showed up. A very somber and serious looking one, with dirty blonde hair accompanying the youngest she had seen so far, barely out of his childhood, a dark haired dwarf with sharp features and eyes that always twinkled with mischief. They too pushed their way into the home, shortly after announcing themselves as Fili and Kili (at your service) and giving the customary bow. It was at this point that Bilbo started yelling, partly out of frustration and partly because it was his only chance of being heard over the dwarves’ booming voices as they called to each other from various parts of the home. 

She would have gotten a fair amount of amusement out of it if she hadn’t, at last, spotted Gandalf. He was making his way up the trail as the others had, ushering forward a horde of what had to be over half a dozen more dwarves, trying their best (and ultimately failing) to be discreet. All of them crowded around the doorway and one rang the bell. Over all the ruckus going on both inside and outside of the home, she dimly heard Bilbo shouting even louder. 

“No, thank you! Go away! There will be no more visitors here!” He called indignantly before finally wrenching the door open and allowing the huddle of dwarves to literally stumble and fall through the doorway, cursing and grumbling over each other. All the dwarves a writhing mass on the floor, the old wizard leaned down so that he was visible in the doorway and grinned somewhat sheepishly at the hobbit. 

“Gandalf.” The hobbit stated distastefully. It was clear they had met before. 

“Bilbo,” Gandalf greeted, smiling as if at some sort of inside joke, “How nice to see you again.” 

The dwarves disentangled themselves from one another and one by one wandered off into the house. Bilbo looked exasperatedly at the wizard as the dwarves piled their coats and weapons on top of him, and opened his mouth to say more when a crash from the other room, and he rushed to assess the damage. Evaine was sure that if the poor hobbit kept shouting like he was, he’ll have lost his voice by the end of the evening. 

Left alone on the front step, the wizard looked around at the dark Shire knowingly, tipping his hat in the direction of the trees in which she was hiding, and she knew that this greeting was directed at her. He knew exactly where she would be, and where she would continue to wait until she was sure it was time to come down. Shaking his head and smiling, he bent low and stepped into the hobbit hole, closing the door behind him. 

Evaine waited a little over an hour in the trees, during which Bilbo could be heard shouting in competition with the laughter and the cheery singing of the dwarves. She wasn’t quite sure what she was waiting for. If Gandalf was there she was not without friends, and he seemed to be on good terms with the dwarves. She was not sure why she was hesitant, it was not the first time she had talked to people of her own kind. She supposed she was waiting until the nervousness subsided, and even when it did not she steeled herself, and left her hiding place. Striding up to the front door with confident grace. 

She was about to knock when the blade of a sword met her throat.


	7. Chapter 7

“You have no business here, elf.” A deep voice rumbled in her ear. As if in reply to the stranger’s voice, the feeling in her chest, the restful fury that, for whatever reason, had been awakened by the drunk named Gideon in the pub of the nameless town, seemed to shift restlessly, making her halt. 

It felt like a real thing, an actual creature that squirmed around inside of her. She dug her nails into her thighs, gritting her teeth. The feeling was extremely uncomfortable, and made her whole body feel strangely hollow, like the rapid pounding of her heart was echoing throughout her. This was no state to be in while she was held at sword point, and so she focused on that, instead. 

The owner of the voice was another dwarf. This one was actually taller than her, and what reflection she saw of him in the glass that flanked the door looked fairly youthful, though not the youngest she had seen of those inside. His hair and beard were both dark, and both were neatly groomed and plain, unlike that of the other dwarves, which were either artfully unkempt or woven into complex plats and patterns. 

The dim reflection revealed a handsome face, sharp features, and dark eyes. Something about him screamed nobility, but then he’d deduced the same thing about her as well. She was, after all, the daughter of a king. Technically.   
She didn’t dare move. 

“Turn around. Let me see your face.” He said coldly, in a voice that could reverberate through her bones. Which could either be a very bad thing, or a very, very, good thing. She remarked as she turned and looked him up and down, and then immediately chastised herself for her swaying thoughts. Not appropriate for being held at sword point.

“I have as much right to be here as you, dwarf.” She said easily. “Tell me, is it often you pull a sword on one of your kin?”   
His eyes widened at her nerve, and his lips curled back over his teeth in a snarl as he repositioned his sword at her throat, this time touching the metal to her skin. 

“You are no kin of mine, elf.” He snarled. “State your business before I tire of holding back my blade.” 

“Thorin.” For the first time she realized that the house had gone silent, and light from the inside of the foyer was now shining on them from the open door. It was Gandalf who spoke. “Leave her be. She is with us.” 

Thorin did not take his eyes off of hers, and something about them was completely consuming. They were dark, so that you could hardly tell the pupil from the iris, and somehow infinite, as if behind his eyes were millions of years of stars and souls and kings. He was true royalty. It ran in his blood.

“I will yield my weapon . . .” Thorin said slowly, “ . . . when she yields hers.” 

For the first time, she smiled. Her twin daggers had been unsheathed when she turned to face him and she had pressed them to his abdomen. If he took her down he’d take himself with her. She sheathed them, holding up her hands and backing away from the tip of his sword. 

“Not bad, Master Dwarf.” She remarked, nodding at him. 

Thorin sheathed his sword, but did not introduce himself, merely stared at her, unsmiling, an unknown emotion held in his eyes.

“Well, Mistress Evaine,” Gandalf suddenly said, “Very nice of you to finally join us.” 

Something in his voice was teasing, and she knew he was referring to her time in the trees. 

“Always helps to be cautious, Gandalf.” She said, fixing him with a radiant smile.

He was one of the few true friends she had made during her time at Mirkwood, and she had missed the old wizard dearly during their time apart. She had not seen him, after all, for the better part of twenty years. 

“Well, do come inside. We might be able to scrounge up some food for you,” He leaned down in a quieter tone. “Though I’m afraid I highly doubt it. Dwarves, you know.” She glanced up at him and smirked once again. 

He noticed the rest of the dwarves staring at her as she stepped into the foyer and coughed.

“Ahem. Pardon my manners. Evaine, this is Dwalin, Balin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Fili, Kili, Oin, Gloin, Dori, Nori, and Ori.” He pointed to each of them. “And this,” He gestured to Thorin. “Is the leader of our Company--”

“Thorin Oakenshield.” The dwarf introduced himself, advancing on her slowly, staring down the bridge of his nose. The weight of this title was thick with arrogance as he said it. She blanched. King Under the Mountain. A king of Erebor, of her homeland. Remembering her manners, she gave a small, respectful bow. 

“Evaine, at your service.” She said cordially, “I’m a child of Erebor. One of the last born under the mountain before the dragon came.” 

It was Thorin’s turn to look shocked, and he, along with his entire company, reevaluated her appearance.

“A dwarf maiden.” Dori said, eyes wide as he seemed to recognize her features. “In elf dress.” 

“So the legends are true then,” Dwalin said in his ever-grim tone. “A child of Erebor being raised in the hall of woodland elves.” 

“There are legends?” Evaine asked, arching her brows, “Where do they come from?” 

“Dwarves held prisoner under King Thranduil spoke of one of their own that walked freely in the halls, a princess under the king, no less.” The one called Balin explained to her.

Suddenly she understood. Often times, when Thranduil thought it amusing to play cat-and-mouse with the dwarves traveling on the Elven Path and imprisoned them in Mirkwood, she would sneak down to the prison cells and talk with them. Everything she had learned about her people had come from the dwarves she had conferred with. 

“You can imagine, with all of your king’s prejudices against our kind, how odd the story seemed.” Thorin all but spat the words. What had started off as simple distrust had grown into fury.

Evaine surveyed the so-called King with mounting dislike. 

“Well, it seems that you harbor some contemptuous feelings yourself, Master Thorin.” She said coolly. 

“Contemptuous indeed.” Thorin said, his mouth pursed, teeth clenched as he stared her down, and she did the same.

“Thorin.” Balin pleaded, glancing at her kindly. “The girl does not choose who raises her.” 

Under Gandalf’s subtle shake of the head, Evaine kept her mouth shut.

“Master Thorin-” Gandalf began pleasantly, but Thorin interrupted him. 

“Gandalf, I asked for a burglar. And since she is an elf and we are in the land of hobbits, I assume that she is not it.” He said, his patience already thin. “Where is my burglar?” 

Gandalf glanced behind him and moved aside, revealing Bilbo, still looking very confused as to what was going on. 

Gandalf simply nudged him and he stumbled forward into the light of the chandelier that hung in the center of the room. 

“So this is the hobbit.” Thorin examined him with the same arrogance. “Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?” 

“Pardon me?” 

“Axe or sword, what is your weapon of choice?” Thorin asked, sharing a smug glance with Dwalin. They were making fun of him. 

“Well, I do have some skill in conquers, if you must know.” Bilbo lied, “But I’m . . . I fail to see . . . how that’s relevant.” He finished defensively. 

“Thought as much.” Thorin glanced at the others, without missing a beat. “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.” 

There was a rumble of chuckling at this, and Evaine could not stop herself from openly glaring at the back of Thorin’s head. 

“Gandalf,” She turned on him. “I did not escape one insufferable king to be met with another. I still wonder why you have brought me into this.” 

“That makes both of us, princess.” Thorin said. Her face reddened and she felt the force in her chest grow. Something about the dwarf king seemed to bring out whatever ugly power had taken up residence inside of her. “And do not make the mistake of comparing me to your king again.” 

“Then do not make the mistake of acting like him.” Evaine spat back. She was fairly certain that with the way this was going, if she were to embark on a quest with this dwarf, the creature in her chest will have consumed her in a matter of weeks.

“Do you--” 

“Thorin.” Balin interrupted him with a tired, pleading look. 

Thorin seemed to heed this silent request, for he bit back whatever he was about to say and pulled an impassive mask over his face.

“Come. I’m starving.” He ordered with unquestionable authority, and they all followed him into the hall, where the dining table had been pushed in order to accommodate all the dwarves. He took a seat at the head of the table—of course—and the rest of them took seats as well. Evaine scooted in against the wall and listened quietly. 

“Bilbo, my dear fellow, give us a little bit more light.” Gandalf asked, pulling something from his robes. Bilbo obliged and rushed off to another room, returning with a lantern just as Gandalf flattened an old, grubby bit of parchment. 

“The . . . Lonely Mountain . . .” Bilbo uttered, looking over Gandalf’s shoulder. Evaine’s head snapped up. Erebor.

“You are going to reclaim Erebor.” Evaine said, breathless with both excitement and apprehension. She did not even remember what the dwarf kingdom looked like. 

“Yes. We are going to reclaim Erebor.” Thorin emphasized, gesturing to the hobbit, Gandalf, and the dwarves. “You are going to go home.” 

“Well, I would venture to say that we both are, Thorin Oakenshield, as I was born under the mountain as surely as you were.” He glared up at her, but her expression was cool. “And as you have no substantial proof that the beast is dead I’ll go on and assume you need all the help you can get.” 

“She has a point, laddy.” Balin said, “If the beast still lives, I’d like to have every warrior we can get on our side.” 

“Aye, we will need it.” Dwalin said, but looked at her, “But who is to say that she is, in fact, an adequate warrior?” 

“I was taught in the elf kingdom. I’m an exceptional fighter and I’m trained to kill with just about anything you give me-” Thorin cut her off. 

“An exceptional fighter, taught in the elf kingdom.” He looked around at the others, “Sounds like a contradiction in terms to me.” 

“Aye!” They said in chorus and there was a burst of laughter. She opened her mouth again to retort, but Bilbo coughed before she got the chance. 

“Ahem.” Bilbo got their attention. “You said beast . . . what beast?” He spoke as if he did not want to know the answer. 

“Well that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age.” Bofur spoke up, tobacco smoke puffing from his nostrils as he spoke. Bilbo still did not seem to understand. “Airborne fire breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks, extremely fond of precious metals.” 

“Yes, I know what a dragon is.” Bilbo sneered. 

It was at this point the smallest of the dwarves stood up, “I’m not afraid. I’m up for it.” Ori said defiantly. 

“The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us.” Balin corrected darkly, “But we number just thirteen-”

“Fourteen.” Evaine corrected.

“Sorry dearie,” Balin obliged, “Fourteen, and not fourteen of the best, nor brightest.” 

“We may be few in number, but we’re fighters,” Fili spoke up. “All of us. To the last dwarf!” 

“And do you forget we have a wizard in our company?” Kili added excitedly, “Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!” 

And then Gandalf was put on the spot, knowing good and well he had not killed any dragons in his time. When he did not answer, all the dwarves began shouting over each other, some even pushing and shoving, and Evaine could not help but roll her eyes. How were they to get anything done if this lot couldn’t stop stumbling over their own feet? Thorin seemed to share in her annoyance, eventually standing up. 

“QUIET!” He roared. As if he’d flipped a switch, the dwarves went silent, and returned to their seats. “If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too?” He asked, “Eyes look east to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighting the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lay unprotected, do we sit back, while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or will we seize this chance to take back Erebor?” 

There was an uproar of cheering as he rallied the dwarves, and Evaine watched him carefully. She had to admire his leadership, the authority that imposed upon anyone and everyone in the room. 

The room buzzed with anticipation at the possibility of returning to the halls of Erebor. 

“But the front gate is sealed. Even if the dragon is dead there is no way inside the mountain.” Evaine pointed out. The rest of them looked at her, and then deemed this a very real problem. Even Thorin seemed surprised. How had he not considered this himself? 

“That, my dear Evaine, is not entirely true.” Gandalf said, a hint of a smile on his face. He rubbed his fingers together and suddenly there was a heavy iron key where there was not one before. It was clearly cast in dwarvish iron, and Thorin looked at him, a mixture of curiosity and outrage on his face. 

“How have you come by this?” Thorin asked. 

“It was given to me by your father.” Gandalf answered steadily, “By Thrain himself.” 

“There’s another way in.” Thorin mumbled, and Evaine caught a glimpse of pure hope in his eyes, as if the possibility of reclaiming his home was never more possible than it is now. 

“This task will be difficult.” Gandalf warned. “It will require stealth, precision, and no small amount of courage. But I believe, with the right amount of luck, it can be done.” 

“That’s why we need a burglar.” Ori pointed out. It was at this point that Bilbo seized the chance to sound knowledgeable on a subject, probably trying to redeem himself from Thorin’s earlier teasing, and jumped in. 

“Mm. And a good one at that. An expert, I’d imagine.” He held his suspenders, and looked around. Evaine winced. He had no clue. 

“And are you?” Dwalin asked flatly, still treating Bilbo as if he were handicapped. Bilbo turned around, as if not certain that the dwarf was talking to him. Thorin looked up at Bilbo was well, raising an eyebrow. 

“Am—am I what?” Bilbo asked. 

“Ha!” Óin said triumphantly, “He said he’s an expert!” 

They all ignored him, staring at Bilbo. 

“What? No! No, I’m not a burglar. I’ve never stolen a thing in my life.” Bilbo said indignantly. 

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins. He is hardly burglar material.” Balin said grimly. 

“Aye, the wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves.” Dwalin said, though he shot a look at Evaine as well as Bilbo. 

“My face is the only thing about me that is gentle, Master Dwalin.” Evaine said, her soft voice full of quiet menace. “Do not make the mistake of assuming otherwise.” 

Dwalin stood, hand on his sword, and Óin, the deafest of the bunch merely shouted “What did she say?! What did she say?!” 

“Don’t get smart with me, Missy.” Dwalin growled, “Or we shall find out all too soon if the elves have taught you well.”

“Easy, brother.” Balin stood beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “The legends alone tell of the girl’s talent. I am sure she will prove herself useful.” Balin looked at her and she nodded gratefully at him, though she still glared at Dwalin.   
“Gandalf, I asked for a burglar.” Thorin said. “And not only have you failed to deliver me one but you’ve brought me an elf as well.” 

“I am not an elf.” She said furiously. 

“Please, mistress Evaine. If you think you are fooling us then you can skulk back to the Elven halls from whence you came.” Thorin spat, standing up. “Your weapons are elvish. Your clothes are elvish. You look like one of them, and you undoubtedly fight like one. I have seen the way you look at us, like you are superior in every way.” 

“Is that not the same way you look at me?” Evaine retorted, “Like my clothes and my weapons are a personal insult to you? Like I am a traitor simply because of who has raised me? I AM A VICTIM OF THE DRAGON JUST AS MUCH AS YOU, AS MUCH AS MY MOTHER, WHO’S BONES STILL LIE IN THE WASTELANDS AROUND THE MOUNTAIN.” 

“OH YES.” Thorin laughed humorlessly, “DO TELL US OF YOUR ENDLESS HARDSHIP, ELF. HOW YOU GREW IN A PALACE INSTEAD OF STRUGGLING FOR WORK LIKE THE REST OF US. WHILE WE WERE JUGGLED FROM ONE DWARF KINGDOM TO THE OTHER, WORKING TO EARN OUR KEEP, TO EARN OUR PLACE IN THIS WORLD BECAUSE WE DID NOT HAVE ONE ANYMORE, YOU SAT ON A THRONE. YOU DONNED SILK ROBES WHILE WE STRUGGLED FOR FOOD, DRANK WINE WHILE OUR CHILDREN CRIED FOR THEIR DEAD GUARDIANS. DO NOT TALK TO ME OF HARDSHIP, ELF, FOR YOU DO NOT KNOW THE MEANING OF THE WORD.” 

Evaine opened her mouth to retort, but snapped it shut again with enough force to break her teeth. The feeling she’d felt in the pub, fury shooting painfully up her spine, a power rising in her throat with a feeling like bile threatening to force it’s way out. 

“ENOUGH.” Gandalf roared, standing up. Suddenly, shadow engulfed the entire room and the old wizard seemed larger and more imposing than ever before. “IF I SAY THAT EVAINE GOES WITH US THEN THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT SHE IS GOING TO DO. AND THE SAME GOES FOR BILBO BAGGINS.” The entire company went silent, and Thorin cursed under his breath and looked away. “Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet, and while the beast is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of hobbits is unfamiliar to him.” The dwarves glanced at each other. He had a point. Gandalf then turned on Thorin completely. “And Evaine’s upbringing has brought her a unique set of talents and traits and a ferocity in battle that defies description, which—I’ll point out, Master Thorin—is exactly the sort of warrior you said you would need to complete this task.” Thorin’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the table and he sighed, frustrated. “I could not care less about your differences of opinion, and I certainly do not care about your prejudices, for neither of them are going to matter when we set out on our journey. Whether you like it or not, you two are going to need each other.” 

Evaine’s body was rigid, the pain almost unbearable , but she decided that Gandalf was not one to be argued with at the moment. “Very well.” She conceded in a clipped tone. “Excuse me.” 

“I cannot guarantee your safety.” Thorin said to her as she made her exit.

“I said I was up for it, Master Thorin.” She said tiredly, biting back a painful cry. Her skin was all but on fire. She felt the fever radiating off of her.

“Nor will I be responsible for your fate.” He said again. With this, an ominous mood set over the table, and they all looked to her, suddenly aware of how dangerous this quest was going to be. 

“I’m going.” She said levelly, looking Thorin in the eyes. She thought she saw a flash of something in his eyes, something that almost looked like respect, or even admiration, but he looked away quickly. 

“Then it is settled.” Thorin said, “Balin, the contracts.” 

“Excuse me for a moment.” Evaine said quietly, making her escape onto the front step of the house. Her breathing gave way to ragged sharp inhalations, as if she were choking and a single sob wracked her body when the pain began, all too slowly, to recede. 

Inside the house, the dwarves dispersed into their own social circles while Bilbo read the contract. Thorin sat quietly in the hallway, watching Evaine’s sobbing figure through the windows adjacent to the front door. He bit back the twinge of regret he felt, and it only made him angrier.


	8. Chapter 8

“. . . laceration, evisceration . . . incineration?” Bilbo looked up as he read the words from the document, alarm evolving into full-blown panic. In the foyer, Evaine stepped through the front door, looking exhausted but composed. She purposefully ignored Thorin’s brooding figure and slid back into the hall. 

Bofur spoke up, despite Gandalf’s discouraging hand gestures. 

“Oh, aye. He’ll melt the flesh of your bones in the blink of an eye.” He said matter-of-factly. Bilbo’s hands fell to his sides, still holding the parchment, and he looked around at his tiny home hopelessly. 

“You alright, laddy?” Balin asked. Bilbo put his hands on his knees, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

“Think furnace with wings.” Bofur added. Evaine could not help but smile. Thorin was by far the least charming of the dwarves. The rest she found quite enjoyable. 

“I feel a bit faint.” Bilbo whispered hoarsely. 

“ . . . flash of light, searing pain, then poof! You’re nothing more than a pile of ash!” Bofur said, and Evaine snorted. 

This last comment seemed to do Bilbo in, for his tiny body hit the floor with a thud, and he was out. 

“Very helpful, Bofur.” Gandalf remarked tiredly and he pulled himself to his feet to tend to the poor hobbit. 

The dwarves turned back to the table, chuckling at Bilbo’s expense. 

“I was only being truthful.” Bofur said, smiling sheepishly. 

“No, you’re right.” Evaine spoke up from her corner, making the dwarves go silent. “The hobbit should know what he is in for.

“Aye, it’ll be no walk in the forest, especially for such a small fellow like Bilbo.” Balin agreed solemnly. 

“And what about you, elf?” Thorin asked, his eyes meeting hers. “Are you prepared for what we are about to face? 

Evaine clinched her jaw. 

“I was only an infant when the dragon came.” She answered quietly, staring into the dancing flames of the hearth, “I shouldn’t be able to remember anything from that age . . . but I remember him. The dragon. Smaug.” She hissed his name. “I remember big yellow eyes, and teeth larger than a grown man. I remember his breath on my skin, just as hot as the fire raging around us. And I remember my mother’s arms wrapped tightly around me, even as she screamed when his breath burned her.” She looked up, and all of them were listening intently. “I remember looking into the eyes of the beast, as he ripped my home away from me—away from us—and I remember him looking back at me. Of all the people running, hiding, dying around him, he was looking at me.” Ori closed his eyes and shuddered. “Every night I’m awakened by yellow eyes and a feeling like hot metal crawling up my skin, and every night I’m lulled back to sleep by the thought of what the halls of Erebor must look like when they aren’t crumbling or blackened by fire, what the people there would be like if they weren’t running and screaming.” She looked directly at Thorin. “I do not have the privilege of remembering my home when it was anything other than broken or dying. For all the years of my life I have watched the mountain from my place in the trees and I have wondered what my home looked like now that the flames were doused and the dragon was sleeping.” Thorin looked back down at the table, away from her gaze, jaw clenched. “And I suppose I may never know. I except that. But I will be damned, if when I go down I am not taking the dragon Smaug with me.” 

She uttered the last words in a snarl, and the company sat quietly, absorbing her words. All of them except Thorin, that is, who stood abruptly and receded to another room.


	9. Chapter 9

They left at dawn. Bilbo, ignoring the efforts of Gandalf, refused to sign the contract, so he was left behind. Despite this small setback, spirits were fairly high amongst the dwarves as they trekked through the awakening Shire on their ponies. They were well into the forest before the sun fully peaked over the Misty Mountains in the east and Evaine listened to the trees and remained deep in thought, her body going into auto-pilot even as she travelled on foot. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to ride, Evaine?” Kili asked, with his most charming smile. “I’d be most happy to share.” 

Evaine noticed Fili roll his eyes at his brother’s flirtatiousness, and smiled. 

“I’m much better off walking, Kili, but thank you.” She said graciously, though she fought back a laugh.

“Suite yourself.” He said, shaking his head, a small, playful smirk on his lips. 

“Kili.” Thorin barked, “Do not take it upon yourself to be courteous to the elf. Especially while the rest of us have nothing to do but listen.” 

There were several chuckles at his remark, and Evaine glared at the back of the dwarf king’s pompous head. Kili shot her a look that said ‘Whoops!’ and shrugged, and she smiled at him, shaking her head. Then, they all grew silent again, and she tuned her ears to the sounds of the trees, mostly to enjoy the peaceful ambience of it, partly to check for any suspicious sounds. 

Her mind wandered back to last night, and all the events that occurred. After Thorin stormed off, the rest of them stayed at the table, occasionally leaving to fetch something to drink (which, for the dwarves, was almost always ale, and Evaine had a glass or two of Bilbo’s wine, deeming it just as good as that of the elven kingdoms, but in a far different way). It was a fairly merry gathering, even though their leader was absent, sulking in the next room. 

Balin eventually excused himself to speak with Thorin, and eventually the rest of them followed. 

Thorin stood contemplatively in front of the hearth, humming quietly to himself as he stared into the flames. He briefly glanced up at her as she was the last to enter, leaning on the door frame, and his eyes held hers for a moment, but it was the only time they strayed from the fire. They all stood silently for a while and then the humming seemed to get louder, rising in volume ever so slowly, in a rhythm unlike anything she had ever heard in the Elven halls. She realized that one by one, the other dwarves were joining in, staring solemnly at the hearth just as he did, and humming in tune with him. And then, in a low, thrumming, powerful voice, Thorin began to sing.

It was the story of when the dragon came, when the kingdom of Erebor was taken. Evaine had heard that dwarves were fond of singing—she was fond of it herself—but never had she heard of the power of their voices, for as soon as the humming began to grow and swell, an energy brewed in the room, swirling with the smoke from the tobacco pipes, and dancing in lilting melody with the flames of the fire. And if she thought the humming was beautiful, it was nothing compared to Thorin’s voice, deep as the Dwarven halls from whence he was born, and which he was born to rule. As he sang his song, and told the story of the Lonely Mountain, she felt an odd feeling settle in her stomach, a sort of serenity and comfort that she had never felt before, but also a solemnness, because the song itself told of what hardships they faced when the sun rose in the morning and she could not stop herself from staring, captivated, at the mysterious figure in front of her. Then, as smoothly and as gradually as it began, the song drifted into silence, and they sat, staring at the flames for what felt like hours more before finally they all settled down to sleep. 

She watched the changing colors of the sky in wonder as the lyrics of the song drifted through her head, and she had to stop herself from humming. 

Suddenly, Evaine halted in her steps. A noise from behind them. 

“We’re being pursued. ” She said. The dwarves halted on their ponies and peered into the forest behind them. 

“There’s no one there, dear.” Balin said, frowning. 

“There will be.” She said, listening intently, “They’re traveling fast, though I believe they’re on foot.” Her eyes brightened, “I think it’s Bilbo!” 

“How in the world . . .” Fili wondered, looking at her incredulously. “I still can’t hear anything.” 

But just then a voice could be heard, barely audible to the dwarves. 

“It is.” Evaine confirmed. “It is Bilbo.” 

She thought she heard Thorin say something under his breath. 

“Wait! Wait!” Bilbo called, and finally he became visible, running through the trees, the contract in his hand flapping helplessly in the wind. Eventually, he caught up. “I signed it. I signed the contract.” 

He handed it to Balin, who examined it. Bilbo’s signature was scrawled across the line.

“Aye, everything seems to be in order here.” Balin said happily. 

“The girl never signed the contract.” Fili piped up from the back. And all of them, Evaine included, traded looks, suddenly remembering this. After Bilbo had fainted the contract was forgotten. 

“Oh, go on.” Bofur said to her, when no one else spoke. “We don’t have the ink or the time to go through all the official jargon anyway. And I don’t think we need a signature to prove your loyalty.”

He was clearly referring to what she had shared with them the night before, about the dragon and the nightmares. She felt a rush of affection for the dwarf in this moment. 

“That’s very kind.” She said, shooting Bofur a grateful smile. “But I really have no problem signing the contract.” 

Thorin met her eyes for only a moment. 

“We keep moving.” Thorin said, turning around and pushing his pony forward. Evaine saw both Balin and Dwalin trade glances, surprised that Thorin had not argued further. Honestly, she was surprised too, but none of them made a comment, just continued in their steady stride.

After several moments of silence, she smiled, remembering something, and spoke. 

“Fili, Kili,” She called, “Pay up.” 

“What?” Fili said. 

“You were serious about that?” Kili asked innocently. She rose an eyebrow. 

“What?” Bilbo asked, “What are you talking about?” 

“We took wagers,” Evaine explained, not taking her eyes off of the two brothers. “On whether or not you would show up.” 

Bilbo’s mouth snapped shut, slightly affronted. 

“Gandalf-” He began, turning to the old wizard. 

“Oh, come now Bilbo, it’s just a bit of fun.” The wizard said, grinning, “Something to keep us entertained in the wee hours of the morning.” Bilbo dodged a small satchel of money, tossed back by Gloin before securely landing in Bofur’s palm. Bofur smiled and pocketed the gold. 

“Wh—did everyone do this?” Bilbo asked. 

“Well naturally.” Gandalf stated, “Most of them bet against you.” 

“And what did you think?” Bilbo asked. 

“Well . . .” Gandalf said before catching a sack of gold. “My dear Bilbo, I never doubted you for a second!” He chuckled, storing the gold safely in his bag. 

“Boys . . .” Evaine warned Fili and Kili. Both of them scoffed. 

“Fine, but that--” Fili tossed her the gold, “—is all the coin you’re getting out of me, miss!” 

“Oh, we’ll see about that.” She threatened. 

“What do you need gold for anyway, you’re an elf princess.” Kili pouted, throwing a rather large bit of gold at her. 

“Can’t help myself, Kili, its too easy.” She teased, “Like taking candy from a hairy baby.” 

He laughed loudly at this, and so did Fili.

“Taking from those who cannot afford to lose,” Thorin spoke up, “It’s a trait you share with your king.” 

She ground her teeth. He had a lot of nerve to compare her to Thranduil, and especially to call her greedy. 

“I have no king, Thorin Oakenshield.” She said, and then raised an eyebrow, “As of yet.” 

He glanced back at her, and for a moment she thought she saw a hint of amusement in his expression, but it was gone as fast as it had come. 

*** *** *** 

Their journey was a long one, and traveling in a group had more challenges than traveling alone. She did not get to decide when they stopped, when they ate, or where they camped for the night, and following the orders of someone who so openly disrespected her took no small amount of patience. All the same, the dwarves were not the worst company in the world. Traveling alone was more peaceful, less conspicuous, but it was also lonely. 

Bilbo was clearly having the most trouble. The hobbit was born to the rolling hills and bubbling streams of the Shire. The landscape beyond that was far less forgiving, as were the people. In Mirkwood, Evaine was trained mercilessly. Decades and decades of pouncing through trees and dueling elves (most of which were far faster and more experienced than she) had at the very least physically prepared her for her journey. She was able to keep up with the ponies easily, and even scouted ahead, or traveled in the trees to survey the surrounding landscape for threats. 

“Halt!” Thorin called, holding out a hand to signal the others. Evaine stopped mid-swing in the foliage and dropped, landing sturdily on the ground. 

“What is it, Thorin?” Balin asked, catching up. He looked around. 

They had come to a small enclave in the solid rock cliffs that marked the edge of the forest. Below the cliffs lie the flat planes that stretched for miles before crumpling at the foot of the mountains. 

“We will stop here for the night.” Thorin got off of his horse. 

“We’re finally stopping?” Kili asked, his voice thick with exhaustion, though he was trying his best to hide it. It was clear that he revered Thorin. I think Gandalf had mentioned that Fili and Kili were the closest things that Thorin had to sons, and she saw a glint of emotion in the way Thorin regarded them. It was small and fleeting though, a shadow of a shadow, and she wondered what happened to make the king so closed off. 

“This will be as good a place as any.” Thorin decided, moving away. 

“We’ll get a fire going.” Bofur offered, “Bombur, how about some of that stew?” 

The rest of the dwarves busied themselves setting up camp, shouting orders at each other, and Evaine wandered over to the edge of the rock. It was a vertical drop, several hundred feet of rocky cliff face before it suddenly smoothed out into seamless, green plain. She wondered how it came to be like that, what impossible force had pushed the forest into the sky. 

“You.” Thorin said from his place at the edge of the cliff, several yards from her, starting her from her reverie, though she willed herself not to show it. “Take first watch.” 

“On it.” She said, equally as professional. He’d expected her to turn away and leave him alone on the cliff’s edge, but she turned to the wall of rock at her side. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Getting a better angle.” She said, scrutinizing the rock, and then grabbed hold of an almost invisible rook in the stone and lifted herself up. In a matter of seconds, she was scaling the wall, climbing higher and higher until she found a bit of shelf in the rock big enough for her to sit on comfortably. 

“Anyone care to join?” She asked. Thorin grunted and turned away. 

“Oh, I’d climb just about anything for a woman like that.” Kili mumbled, making his brother chuckle. 

“Mind your tongue, boy, she’s old enough to have given birth to you.” Thorin admonished, coming to rest on a small boulder placed near the edge of the rocks. 

“Age enough for you, then, Uncle.” Kili said, smiling suggestively. “Maybe it’ll be you doing the climbing.” 

Thorin rolled his eyes. 

“I should be so unfortunate.” He mumbled under his breath, so that no one could hear. 

“You’re words wound, Thorin.” Evaine remarked, not looking down at them. She was now laying across the small outcropping so that the ends of her hair and her feet dangled over the edge and she stared up at the sky. 

“Our enemies do not come from the stars, Evaine.” Thorin snapped, “What good is a lookout if she isn’t looking at anything?” 

She laughed, and he resisted the urge to slam his fist into one of the rocks. What was it about her that invoked such fury in him? He closed his eyes, trying in vain to relax, and eventually drifting into a restless sleep. 

“What is that?” Bilbo asked, concerned. A vile screeching noise had come from the flat lands that they overlooked. An orc pack headed north. Evaine had picked it up as soon as she had reached her spot on the rocks, but eliminated it as a risk. They were traveling safely away from the Company. 

“Orcs.” Kili said grimly. Evaine saw Thorin jump at the word, startled from his slumber. Leaning back so that she would not be caught, she watched him interestedly. 

“There’ll be loads of them out there.” Fili told Bilbo, puffing on his pipe. Thorin looked around, his eyes shifting back and forth to take in his surroundings, his breathing fast. If the dwarf king was capable of anything close to fear, it was that emotion that haunted his noble features now. 

“Aye. They strike in the wee hours when everyone’s asleep. No screams, just lots of blood.” Kili said seriously, and when Bilbo wasn’t looking he shared a quiet laugh with his brother. 

When he seemed to become aware that there was no imminent threat, his eyes landed on his nephews, and his expression fell into anger. 

“Do you think that’s funny?” Thorin snapped. “That a night raid by orcs is a joke?” 

Kili’s face froze, and his eyes dropped. 

“We didn’t mean anything by it.” He said quietly, but it did nothing to quell the king’s temper. 

“No. You didn’t.” Thorin spat, storming away from his place against the boulder and over to the cliff’s edge once again. “You know nothing of the world.”

He stared out at the flat lands beneath the rocks. They were seemingly peaceful, beautiful and green, but it was overrun with orcs, and because of its flat nature there was nowhere to hide. They would have to get started as early as possible in the morning to get across the plains in one day. If they were stuck at night they’d be completely exposed. This sort of planning was what should have been going through the King’s head, as leader of the company, but as he stared out at the indiscernible darkness he was thinking of legendary battles, of pale orcs and the fall of kings. 

Balin told the story, of why Thorin hated the orcs so, but Evaine did not listen. She could not stop staring at Thorin, completely enraptured by the pensive figure of the one true King Under The Mountain, a brooding shadow even against the black sky.


	10. Chapter 10

Traveling with the Company proved not only beneficial, as Evaine had learned several handy survival tips, as well as many songs and customs of Dwarf culture, but quite enjoyable. Bofur took up with her quickly, one of the friendlier of the dwarves. Instead of spending nights brooding, their times around the fire became more lively. They ate and joked and laughed. She tried to teach Fili how to dance, only to end with both of them on the ground in pain. Kili wanted to dance too, but he somehow ended up on top of her when they inevitably fell (she had a sneaking suspicion that this was his goal the whole time. Thorin growled at him to get up and did not say another word. 

And then there was her hair.

For whatever reason, the dwarves were very serious about her doing something with her hair. She generally just let it fly free, or tied it back in a ribbon, and even when she braided it down her back they were not satisfied. 

“Honestly, Evaine, you’ve got to do something with it.” Kili called over the half-drunken, raucous laughter of the dwarves. 

“Why?” She asked defensively, her wild curls all pulled around to one side. She touched it protectively. 

“Because it is the hair of elves.” Gloin said gruffly. “Honestly dear, it’s embarrassin’.” 

The dwarves tossed their heads back and roared with laughter once more. Even Thorin smiled, from his spot by the fire. Evaine blushed. 

“It is bright red and curly, Gloin, much like your own.” She said, “Is yours the hair of elves as well?” 

He stopped smiling and stood. 

“What did she say?” He growled, his hand on his sword, ready to strike. 

“Oh sit down, Gloin.” Dwalin said, yanking the angry redhead back into his seat. “It’s not the color, lass. It’s the way you’ve got it. Plain. No braids or anythin’.” 

“Well, what if we cut it like yours, Dwalin?” She asked, raising an eyebrow at him, “I’d fancy a haircut like that. Markings and all.” 

This earned laughter as well, most at the image of Evaine with the top of her head shaved bald and tattooed. 

“This is the hair of a warrior, dear.” Dwalin said seriously. “You will have to earn it.” 

“I will take that as a challenge, sir.” She lifted her flask, her eyes wild with excitement and the dwarves’ brandy. It took several nights but, tired of the responsibility of being the only sober one of the group, eventually took part in the drinking. The brandy did not taste nearly as bad as the ale she’d had in Gladden, but only because of the pleasant burning sensation it left as it flooded her stomach. 

They laughed, and joked for an hour more, during which she ended up crossing blades with Fili and knocking him on his back, with him giggling drunkenly all the way. Then, finally and with eyes drooping, the dwarves headed away from the fire, collapsing to their blankets, unconscious. Eventually, she only shared the campfire with Thorin. 

Evaine swigged the flask—she was pretty sure it was Dwalin’s, for he had several—and laid down on the log, staring into the flames. 

Thorin examined her, troubled. She was so small for a dwarf woman, even as curvy as she was by the standard of elves, there was an unsettling elegance to her form. She had taken off the chest plate that she always wore, leaving her in nothing but her tight trousers and thin, white shirt. She had pushed the sleeves up to her elbows, and the way she was laying let the hem of the shirt slide up, to reveal a shard of her stomach, pale skin pulled over toned muscle. As she had just bathed hours prior, her hair was especially voluptuous, an army of delicate tendrils, all tangled together to form a mass of curls as red as the blood moon.

What in Mahal’s name was happening to him? The woman that he had every reason to hate lay in front of him, and he could do nothing but notice the perfect curve of her ribcage to her hip, the glow of her porcelain skin, the slenderness of her neck, and how he would love to press his lips to that throat and feel her hum of appreciation . . .

He sat straight up at the turn his thoughts had taken and shifted awkwardly in his seat, looking up to make sure that she had not noticed. She hadn’t. 

“Brandy’s a lot stronger than wine.” She said flatly, staring at the little flask through unfocused eyes. She couldn’t tell whether or not she was slurring her words yet, but by the judge of Thorin’s grin, she guessed that she was. 

“That’s the point.” He said wryly, drinking his own and silently thanking the gods that he had not been discovered. His thoughts were just that: thoughts. And if he had any will left, they would stay that way. “I think you should probably get some sleep.” 

“Oh don’t you start.” She said, waggling her finger uncoordinatedly and sitting up. “I’ve already got one too many kings trying to tell me what to do.”

He smiled. When she found herself in a sitting position, he noticed that the strings that tied the top of her blouse together had come undone, leaving in plain view the alabaster skin that formed the small divet between her breasts. His mouth went dry. He pictured running his nose along that trail, her back arched into him, head falling back in rapture as he teased her. 

“If you can’t take orders from me,” He said slowly, willing himself to tear his eyes away from her. “Then you probably should not have signed a contract pledging your service.”

“I didn’t sign the contract.” 

“Mm. But you would have.” He said, and then looked at her curiously. “I often wonder why.” 

She was silent for a moment. “You underestimate me, Thorin.” 

“I’m serious.” He said darkly. “This quest is a death wish. Dwalin, Balin, Gloin, they all know as well as I and still they follow me.” He shook his head, staring into the flames. “But at least I am respectful of them.” 

She realized that he was talking about her. 

“And you do not respect me.” She stated, swigging the strong brew once more. 

“No, I think I do respect you. But I’m not respectful.” He said quietly, thoughtfully, thinking of how he caught himself looking at her sometimes. “As much as the men I have fought with for years, I respect you. You are stronger than half of those here, probably including myself. Smarter, more resilient, kinder. A skilled warrior and a fine dwarf.” He glanced up at her as he said this but his eyes quickly returned to the embers of the fire, now dying down. He seemed like he was going to say more, but did not. 

“I don’t think you can find it in you to be nice to me, Thorin.” She said, and though her words should have been hostile, she was smiling easily. “But that’s alright.” 

He glanced up, confused, and then his smile reflected hers. He often found it most difficult not to smile when she did, for her smile was contagious, and even more so when both of their minds were weakened by alcohol. And she’d never stopped to appreciate his smile, mostly because it was so rare that she was caught unaware whenever it flashed across his face, and it softened his proud features into something much more appealing. 

“Is that so?” He asked, amused, confused, and intrigued all the same. 

“Yep.” She stood up. “Because I am going to make it very difficult for you to hate me.” 

“You are.” 

She could not tell whether this was a statement or a question.

“I am.” She affirmed, wandering away from the campfire. “You will learn to love me sooner or later, King Under the Mountain, that is a promise.” 

She stood, downed the remainder of the brandy, and then danced over to the spot where she’d chosen to sleep earlier and landed on her blanket, curling up in it and dozing into a deep sleep. 

“That is what I am afraid of.” He murmured quietly, his troubled eyes surveyed her sleeping figure in the grass, and then he took a final swig of his brandy, and leaned back by the smoldering embers of the fire.


	11. Chapter 11

Evaine woke to a cloudy sky, lightened only slightly by the sun. It had to at least be nine in the morning. She gasped.

“We’ve overslept.” She said suddenly, sitting up. “Wake up! Oin, Gloin, Dwalin . . .”

They all groaned and reluctantly stirred.

“What the hell-” Dwalin sat up, his hand on his weapon.

“It’s past nine.” She said to him, “We need to move. We’ve been here too long.” Though they were out of the flat plains, they were still in monotonous country, where it was very easy to be seen. She looked over to Thorin, who still slept peacefully.

“Better let me, lass.” Balin said, looking at the restful king. “He doesn’t like to be woken.”

“There’s no time.” Evaine said, “Ready the ponies, I will get him.”

Balin looked at Thorin, frowning.

“Very well.” He said, unsure, but turned away.

She was left alone with the king as all the dwarves drifted off in the direction of the horses, placed away from the camp. She remembered his jumping awake at Bilbo’s mention of orcs, and approached him carefully.

“Thorin,” She said softly, “Thorin, wake up.”

All at once, his eyes flew open. Hands already on his sword, he drew it and attempted to strike at her. She caught the blade down at the hilt, where it was less sharp and hit her hand with less force. Still, it dug into her flesh, and she grit her teeth to avoid crying out. Surprised by this deflection, he stalled, giving her time to grab the hilt of the sword with her other hand and tear it out of his. She ripped her hand from the blade. Blood began running down her arm and she did not stop to watch it, for she was immediately jumping on top of Thorin, straddling him to hold his legs down and pinning his hands to the ground with hers.

He was quite a bit stronger than her, and obviously not fully aware of what he was doing, and so he kept struggling against her. Eventually, she would be overpowered.

“Thorin!” She half-yelled at him, forcing his hands back to the ground. He finally looked at her, his eyes clearing.

“Evaine.” He breathed, recognizing her. “What—what on earth--” She exhaled, her head falling to his chest for a moment. “What happened? Are you okay? Why are you . . . ?”

“Maiar, Thorin.” She said, breathing heavily.

“What . . . happened to your hand?” He asked slowly, his breathing regulating. He looked heavily at her arm, still pinning his to the ground, dripping blood.

He was completely disoriented. What in hell had just happened? Evaine was holding him down, her hand gushing blood, and still he could hardly form a sentence as he noted their positions.

“Caught the business end of your sword.” She laughed breathlessly, but when she saw his troubled expression, her humor faded. “It’s nothing really. A small cut is all.”

The weight of her body on top of his made the hair on his neck stand up, and for a moment the only thought in his head was to grab her hips and pull her down on him. They were late. They were in danger. Evaine was injured. And the only thing he could think about was her hips against his. This angered him more than anything else.

He said nothing, his expression fading from startled and concerned to something less kind.

“I am clearly no longer a danger, Evaine. Get off.” Her smile disappeared and she blushed as the suggestiveness of their position occurred to her. In one swift movement she was on her feet, offering her hand to him, though reluctant to meet his eyes. “It is after nine.” He snapped, ignoring her hand and getting to his feet. “Why did no one wake me?”

She blanched, stunned at his change in mood.

“I just woke myself, Thorin. We all did.” She answered.

“It is your job to wake us, Evaine. Years in the elven kingdoms should have at least taught you how to wake up without the help of servants, should it not?” He sneered. “If you cannot even do that . . . then what good are you?” He brushed past her roughly, knocking her shoulder as he did so, and she openly leered at the back of his head as he made his way through the grass to the others, who had not witnessed what had just happened.

Fuming, she choked down the powerful rage that rose in her throat—something she was having to do far too often in the presence of Thorin Oakenshield—and followed him.

**********

They travelled day and night, Thorin mercilessly trudging on while his followers began to grumble almost as much as Evaine did—though not nearly as loudly. The flat lands were behind them, and now they travelled into the less-flat, rocky lands and thinning forests just below the Misty Mountains.

“Thorin we won’t get anywhere if we all drop dead before we’ve even crossed into the lands of the east.” Evaine said loudly, flicking her knife into the ground ahead of her as she walked, and then picking it up when she got to it and throwing it again.

Her feet were killing her, her legs had begun hurting hours ago and had long since faded into something numb and far less pleasant. Dried blood could still be seen crawling up her hand, but she had wrapped the wound with a fragment of cloth from Kili’s undershirt and so far no one had worked up the courage to ask either her or Thorin what had happened. Her walking became clumsier as she trembled with exhaustion and still, Thorin toiled on. She supposed she could thank him for that, for she was almost certain that her hatred for him was the only thing actively keeping her conscious.

“Evaine, I see no one complaining except you.” Thorin said coolly without looking back. “If you wish to be pampered, go back to your elf palace.”

“Do not talk to me like I am nothing more than a spoiled princess, Thorin.” She began, her voice rising.

“Dearie,” Balin said with a sense of urgency, “Best not.”

“It is a king’s job to impose his rule.” Thorin said, and he had the good grace to sound a tad petulant. “And yet you openly defy me--”

“But a king is nothing if his people detest him,” Her voice was rising again. “And as a future subject in your God-forsaken kingdom, I would like to make an OFFICIAL COMPLAINT.” She was walking faster now, so that she passed him on his pony, and did not look at him. “You are moody and arrogant. You talk of me complaining and yet I hear no one whining more than you. You see no one else’s hardship but your own. They could build MONUMENTS to your ego and your delusional superiority, and I SWEAR ON THE LINE OF DURIN AND EVERY GOD IN THE HEAVENS IF I HEAR YOU CALL ME AN ELF ONE MORE TIME I WILL BE SHOVING THIS BLADE SOMEWHERE VERY UNPLEASANT.” She looked back at him, and if her eyes were capable of stopping a heart, there would not be a single creature within twenty miles left alive. “AND KINGS ARE NOT ONLY LIKEABLE WHEN THEY ARE DRUNK.” She picked her sword from her back and flung it at a walnut tree, sticking it in the trunk with so much force that the thin bark splintered and the still-green walnuts shook from the branches and fell to the ground. Not a word was said from the dwarves behind, and she continued grumbling as she yanked her sword from the tree and glanced back. “I’m going to scout ahead.” She said icily.

The dwarves were too busy staring, some in amusement, some in alarm at her to argue.

“We will stop here.” Thorin declared in his most authoritative voice, ignoring her and getting off his pony.

“Then I will go scout the area.”

“We’re all tired, dearie. Why not just have a rest?” Balin suggested kindly, recovering from his initial surprise at her hostility.

“Because I am angry, Master Balin.” She called behind her, in the most civil tone she could manage. “And it would be in Thorin’s best interest if he were out of the reach of my blade.”

Thorin glared as he watched her climb into the thick surrounding foliage, surprise at her nerve momentarily overcoming his anger. All of the dwarves looked at him. Dwalin was the first to laugh, clapping him on the shoulder roughly.

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, lad-”

“Shut it, Dwalin.” Thorin snapped, sulking away. Dwalin only laughed harder.

Thorin was fuming. He set off, to the withering skeleton of an old house that lay in the valley. He had hurt her. All he’d done was attempt to be civil, in the haze of his alcohol-diluted brain, and she could have died by his hand that morning because of it. If he’d been his usual brand of sullen and distant, she would still be angry with him, and would have happily left the job of waking him to Balin, who was equipped to deal with his fits.

And to beat it all he’d taken it out on her. And to really beat it all, all he could think about, even still, was her body on top of his. He growled inwardly, and he ground his teeth when Gandalf approached him, sensing another conflict on the horizon.

**********

“He’s pompous, petulant, arrogant, and rude.” Evaine raged, as Gandalf walked beside her.

                  He had left the company soon after she did, after a heated argument with Thorin.

                  “My dearest Evaine, I came on this walk to come away from my anger at Thorin.” He puffed at his pipe. “And while I don’t particularly disagree with you-” He said darkly, his own annoyance with Thorin showing in his eyes. “—I would encourage you to do the same.”

                  She huffed and crossed her arms against the cold—she’d left her cloak back at camp.

                  “Alright.” She grumbled. “But I’m still angry.”

                  He chuckled.

                  “Thorin can deny your competence, he can deny your usefulness, but he cannot deny your Dwarvish temper, Evaine.” His pipe had smoked itself out, and he rummaged around in his robes for his wooden pestle and tobacco. “It is one that he shares.”

                  “Maybe that is why we’re so incompatible.” She said thoughtfully, shaking her head.

                  Gandalf looked to her, raising a bushy eyebrow. “Incompatible as what? Friends? Acquaintances? Colleagues? Lovers?” He ground the tobacco in the bowl of the pipe.

                  Evaine rolled her eyes, but her cheeks reddened and she was grateful that he could not see.

                  “Come off it, Gandalf.” She said, “Incompatible in every sense of the word. We cannot stand each other.”

                  “Well that’s all well and good Evaine but you must have friction--” He stowed his pestle and flicked his finger, a small flame spawning at the tip, “—to create fire.” He lit his pipe, exhaled smoke, and then raised his feathery eyebrow at her again as it snaked from his nostrils.

                  With a sweep of her hand she took the pipe and inhaled deeply, smoke billowing from her parted lips and casting eerie shadows across her face as it danced in the moonlight.

                  “Well, that’s all well and good Gandalf but,” She mirrored his expression, handing him his pipe, “Fire does nothing but destruct and seek destruction. And I have seen enough of both to last lifetimes.”

                  He smiled. They often went back and forth like this.

                  “True, true.” He agreed. “You have seen enough fire and destruction to do us both in. But every once in a while, while the fire is still burning hot--” He made designs out of smoke, of flames and strange creatures. “—a phoenix will rise from the embers.”

                  She stayed silent, looking up at the moon. A large cloud of smoke was rising above the trees and she assumed that the company were well into their meal by now, chatting happily amongst each other whilst their leader sat away from them in his own quiet brood. She did not comment on what Gandalf said, and they merely walked in silence until she was quite sure her anger had subsided enough to avoid physically attacking Thorin, and she announced that she would head back to camp.

                  “Careful in these woods, Evaine.” Gandalf warned her, “It is easier for us to hide in them, true, but it is easier for other things to hide as well.”

                  “And the same to you, Gandalf.” And on that note, she turned and began making her way toward the smoke rising over the trees.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Evaine made her way silently through the forest, feeling far less exposed and more comfortable than she was in the flat lands they had travelled. She glanced up to be sure she was still headed in the direction of the fire and stopped. Directly ahead of her, she knew, was the small clearing, with the old house. A discreet trail of smoke snaked into the sky from the small fire that the dwarves must have lit, and the flames reflected orange on the surrounding trees and rocky outcroppings. But . . . several yards to her left, in the thick of the forest, another trail of smoke rose, this one a bit larger. 

Gandalf had been right, they were not the only one’s seeking refuge in the forest that night. The question is, are they friend or foe? Evaine debated on whether or not to investigate the second fire now, or to inform the company first, and she decided on the latter  
.   
The company was gone. Not a dwarf in sight. The fire was still going quite strong, and the stew that hung above it in Bombur’s pot was still steaming, but they all had gone. 

Were they looking for her, she wondered? Maybe she had been gone too long. No, she grimaced, Thorin would not waste his time looking for her. 

That was when she heard it. Yelling. Battle cries and the ruckus of a fight. She looked to the source of the noise: the second fire. The voices were unmistakably familiar, and she took off in that direction at the speed of light, hands on her daggers. 

But daggers would do her no good, she soon discovered. Mountain trolls, three of them, standing in front of the second fire. All of the dwarves stood in front of the trolls, in plain sight, weapons raised. They had all clearly been fighting, and had reached a stand off. Evaine soon discovered why. Bilbo’s tiny body was in the hands of two of the trolls, ready to be torn apart. 

“Lay down your arms!” One of the trolls said, and then chuckled darkly, “Or we’ll rip his off.” 

For a moment, Evaine questioned whether or not Thorin would do it, but almost immediately, and glaring defiantly at the trolls, he stuck his sword in the ground. The rest did the same. As the trolls advanced on them, Thorin scanned the forest and somehow found her, nearly invisible among the foliage. She met his eyes and nodded, and though she couldn’t be sure, she thought she saw a small smile curve his lips.


	13. Chapter 13

Evaine laid low and waited as the dwarves were split up. Half were tied, forced into burlap sacs, and tossed to the ground. The other half were stripped down to their underclothes and bound to a makeshift rotisserie wheel above the fire, while one of the trolls sat and turned it. All were shouting and Bilbo was trying to stall the trolls, giving time, she assumed, for either her or Gandalf to save the day. And Gandalf was nowhere in sight. 

She chewed her lip. Mountain trolls were slow and stupid. It would not usually be that difficult for her to take them down, but she could not kill all three and protect the dwarves at the same time. They could easily be used as leverage against her, just as Bilbo was, and she would end up tied with the rest of them. The trolls were getting impatient with Bilbo, who was now trying to convince them that all of the dwarves were infested with parasites. 

There was no time to wait for Gandalf, but even though he was not there, the old wizard gave her an idea. Gandalf’s horse was trapped in a small paddock with three of their ponies. Evaine guessed that this is what the dwarves had come for in the first place. The trolls had likely found the animals wandering the forest and taken them for food. Gandalf’s bag still hung from the saddle of his steed. 

Evaine kept to the shadows until she reached the horses. Gandalf’s steed whinnied merrily at the sight of her, and she ducked as one of the trolls scanned the area suspiciously. When it was safe, Evaine rose again, and held her finger to her lips, signaling for the animal to be quiet. She pet it’s nose soothingly and then reached back to retrieve the bag, unhooking it, and retreating into the shadows again. 

Once safe in the trees, she unclasped the bag and opened it, mumbling silent pleas as she rummaged through its contents. Tobacco, a spare pipe, the sack of gold he won betting on Bilbo, then at last she found what she was looking for. Gandalf’s love for his fireworks had not failed her. She pulled out a handful of his special firecrackers. 

As her plan began to form, she was already climbing into the tree closest to one of the trolls. Ensuring that her aim was perfect, she tossed one of the firecrackers into the fire. 

CRACK. 

The trolls’ heads snapped in the direction of the fire. 

` CRACK, CRACK. Two more fireworks. 

And as one of them move to investigate, she dropped from the tree onto the back of fattest troll, pulled out her daggers and jabbed them into its eyes, and then leapt back into the trees unnoticed before it even began to howl. 

“GYAAAGH!” It screeched, its meaty hands moving up to shield its face as blood dripped from its chin. “SOMEFIN’ GOT ME IN MY EYES. I CAN’T SEE!” 

Evaine’s daggers were not big enough to reach the trolls tiny brain and kill it, but they were just the right size to blind it. 

“What in hell you goin’ on about now, eh?” The smartest of the group called distractedly, stooped low and looking into the fire. 

“What is it, mate?” The third troll asked his blinded friend, concerned. “One of the sparks from the fire got ya?” 

Seeing a second opportunity, Evaine jumped from the trees again and blinded this troll, returning to her perch unseen. 

“AAAAAARGH!” It yelled, clutching its face as the other one did, “IT GOT ME TOO, IT GOT ME TOO!” 

Their moaning finally annoyed the smartest troll into looking up to see what was going on, but it was too late, Evaine had already tossed the remainder of the firecrackers into the fire, causing it to explode in the trolls face. He, like the others, screeched and flailed in pain, knocking one of the legs out from under the rotisserie wheel, and causing it to fall. Luckily, the trolls flailing also knocked it away from the fire, and it eventually rolled out of harms way, with the dwarves still tied down and grunting in pain every time they found themselves at the bottom of the wheel. 

All three of the trolls were blinded, now, and Evaine descended from the trees, landing in plain sight. 

“Well, well, well.” She said coolly, and the trolls’ stopped howling and moaning for a moment, and froze. 

“Who was that?” One of them whispered. 

Evaine moved swiftly and silently around the three trolls, who were all standing in a group now, until she was behind them. 

“That was me.” She said, and they all jumped and turned, blindly lashing out. She dodged their clubs and club-like fists and moved quickly. “Three blind trolls . . .” She said, “I think I once heard a nursery rhyme to that effect.” 

“Why you little--” The smartest one started, but tripped over a log from the fire and fell. 

While they scrambled to help him up—which ended up in all of them on the ground, cursing both her and each other—she silently went around and picked all their weapons off of them. There were several clubs of varying sizes, and fileting knife , and several other blades of crude craftsmanship. 

“Ey! ‘Ey where’d my club go?” One asked. 

“He’s taken our weapons and us not even knowin’ it!” One of them wailed. 

“She, gentlemen.” She corrected. “You’ve been so tactful so far, do not forsake your manners now.” She glanced at Thorin, who watched her. “Lord knows they’re in short supply around here.” 

Thorin’s eyebrows shot up and indignance flared in his eyes, but he didn’t say a word to risk exposing his position to the trolls. 

“Now, how’s about the three of you be on your way?” She said, leaning against the trunk of a tree. “As I’m sure you’re beginning to realize, my friends here are more trouble than they are worth.” 

“An’ jus’ who the hell do you think you are?” The smartest troll asked angrily stumbling toward her. She supposed his intent was to tackle her, or maybe just hit her with his bare fist, but he did not get the chance. Evaine unsheathed one of her swords and like a flash of lightning slashed at his knees. He grunted and fell, face first, to the ground, and before he could get up, she drove the sword through his skull. He let out a strangled groan before going silent. 

The other two trolls, who were getting more adept at using their ears instead of trying in vain to see, let out cries of grief. 

“You kill’t him!” One wailed, “What’d you go an’ do tha’ for?” 

“I gave him a chance to run and instead he attacked me.” Evaine said. “I will only say this once more. Find your meal elsewhere.” 

“C’mon mate.” The biggest one said, “It ain’t worth it.” 

But the third one was not having it. Grief quickly turned to anger and he growled.

“Oh you fowl old WENCH!” He yelled acidly, “I’LL RIP YOU TO PIECES!” He charged in the direction from which he’d last heard her voice, and though she was well out of the way, all of the dwarves were not. 

Though still in their sacks, most of them had taken to rolling or crawling out of harms way, at least long enough to find something that would free them, but one remained, unable to escape. The burlap sack by which Thorin was bound was caught on the sharp rocks behind him. He could not go anywhere. His eyes widened at the oncoming troll, but there was no action to be taken, nothing he could do. He would be crushed.

Evaine moved quickly, panic seizing her chest. She had no time to strategize, and so she jumped onto the creature and forced the sword into his back. It was not an instant kill shot and the creature screeched, his feet stopping just short of flattening Thorin. It was the troll’s turn to panic, yelling belligerently at the biggest troll for help as he swatted at his back, trying to smack her off. He abruptly turned around, forcing her to lose her footing and putting all of her weight on the sword as it became the only thing holding her to the creature. He squalled in pain at the sword digging deeper into his flesh, and stumbled backward. 

The troll crashed into the rocky outcropping, taking Evaine with him and all but crushing her between his body and the sharp wall of solid stone. There was not a single sound in the few seconds that the troll was against the wall, with Evaine’s tiny body the only thing cushioning him, and then the troll fell forward and both of them hit the ground, lifeless.


	14. Chapter 14

It was terribly, terribly quiet. Evaine could not hear a thing. And terribly dark as well for she could not see either. She was dimly aware of a pain, but could not pinpoint exactly where she was injured. Then, she realized that the pain was inevitably coming from everywhere, all over her body.

 

“Evaine!” Someone yelled from somewhere nearby, and the deep voice sounded familiar. “Evaine, can you hear me?”

 

“Kill’t them both, you did!” The third troll wept, “I oughtta tear you all to pieces!” There were vibrations in the ground as if something very heavy was moving toward her.

 

“DON’T TOUCH HER.” Thorin. She realized it was Thorin that was yelling. No, he was _roaring_. She’d never heard him sound so furious, so full of hate and the promise of violence.

 

But whatever was coming for her never got the chance, for their was a deafening crack, a blinding light, and a howl of fear from the heavy-footed creature, and then silence.

 

“Untie me. Someone untie me.” Thorin demanded. “Gandalf! Evaine is hurt.”

 

“Did you say Evaine?”

 

“Evaine’s hurt?”

 

“What? Evaine!”

 

She felt the vibrations in the ground as she was approached by the dwarves.

 

“Aye, she’s not looking too good.”

 

“Not good at all.”

 

“Out of my way! Let me through!” Came Gandalf’s authoritative voice. “Evaine, can you hear me?”

 

She tried to make a noise, to groan or hum, to give any indication that she wasn’t dead.

 

“Is she alright, Gandalf?” Thorin asked, “Gandalf, is she going to be alright?”

 

“I don’t know, Master Thorin.” Gandalf said impatiently, “Give me a moment.”

 

“Wait! Shut up! She said something, I heard it!”

 

A muffled noise, and they all leaned in closer, no one even daring to breathe. Suddenly, she coughed loudly, making them jump, and flopped over like a beached fish so that she was lying on her back.

 

“Ow.” She mumbled, her nose and cheeks snubbed with dirt, a single trickle of blood stemming from her nostril. She looked up. “What are all of you standing over me for?”

 

Half of them laughed, half yelled at her for scaring them like that. Thorin was gone from her side, brooding once again, away from the group.

 

“ _Mahal_ , girl!” Dwalin said, “I think you scared the daylights out of all of us!”

 

“Well, no one was as frightened as those three.” Someone gestured to the three trolls, all turned to stone in the daylight, though only one had been left standing. They all laughed at the comment.

 

“Aye, with you jumping from the trees and back up, disappearing and reappearing somewhere else . . . made my eyes hurt jus’ trying to keep up!”

 

“Smart move, though. Blinding them.” Gloin remarked, “Indeed, you may be useful to us, yet, lass.”

 

“Well, don’t count me in just yet.” She said, with a weak smile, “Bit more dangerous, trying to blind a dragon.”

 

“Rest, Evaine.” Gandalf said, smoothing her hair way from her face. “You did well.”

 

It was at this point that she finally gave in to the darkness that was edging into her vision, and passed out.

 

************

 

Kili’s stubbly chin and the darkening blue sky were all she could see. She felt a pair of sturdy arms supporting her, and realized that he must be carrying her.

 

“Oh, god.” She said quietly, “Have I stooped so low in my health that _you_ have to carry me?” he glanced down at her and smirked, “It would be kinder to let me die.”

 

He laughed. “Well, Gandalf seems rather determined to keep you healthy, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

 

“Well,” She joked, “At least you’re easy to look at. Anyone else’s beard would have smothered me by now.”

 

He snickered and shook his head.

 

“You’re supposed to be resting.” He said, “I’m not carrying you so you can make jokes.”

 

“Hey, why are you carrying me anyway? Where are the ponies?”

 

“You’ve only been out for an hour or so, Thorin wants to find out how the trolls were traveling in the daytime.”

 

“You’re looking for a cave.” She deduced, and he nodded.

 

“We’re just searching the forest. The ponies are back at camp.”

 

“We’ve found it!” Someone called ahead of them, and Kili picked up his stride.

 

“You regret picking me up now?” She asked.

 

“Evaine, you weight little more than an infant.” He said, “I’ve carried plates of food for Bombur that weigh more than you.”

 

 They cackled loudly, earning a dirty look from Dwalin, who signaled for them to shut up.

 

“I’ve never seen a troll horde before.” She said, and then scrunched her nose at the scent. “And it smells like I don’t want to.”

 

 “Do you want me to sit outside with you?” He offered, but she refused, and so he sat her on a rock and followed the others inside.

 

She took this time to examine herself. She was bruised, certainly, just about everywhere, including a nasty one that ran the length of her freckled cheekbone. Several of her ribs were cracked, if not broken. There was a dull, aching pain nagging at the front of her skull, right behind her eyes. And she was almost certain that her right ankle was twisted. Overall, it was not nearly as bad as it could have been. She was thankful.

 

They plundered around in the cave for a little over an hour, during which she sat outside, resting and meditating. She wanted to be back on her feet as soon as possible. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open, her reverie broken.

 

“Someone is coming!” She called, her hand going back to unsheathe her sword only to find that neither of them were there. Kili must have removed her swords and her backpack so that she’d be easier to carry. Cursing, she pulled out a dagger and grabbed a sturdy stick from the ground to steady herself as she stood.

 


	15. Chapter 15

The dwarves all appeared at the mouth of the tunnel, weapons drawn, just as a familiar character burst through the foliage, on a sleigh pulled by rabbits.

                  “Radagast?” Evaine said, sure that hallucinating was not a good sign of her health

                  The old wizard had jumped off his sleigh before it was even fully stopped, shouting a bunch of incoherent nonsense, but was cut short by her inquiry.

                  “Evaine?” He asked, “Is that you?”

                  “It is.” She said, and then simultaneously, they both asked “Well, what are you doing all the way out here?”

                  “You know this man?” Thorin asked her, eyeing him warily.

                  “Radagast the Brown.” Gandalf introduced him, “He is a wizard, like myself.” Gandalf stepped forward, frowning. “What are you doing here?”

                  It was then that Radagast tugged Gandalf away from the group to discuss something of great importance.

                  “You know him?” Thorin asked her quietly, coming to stand beside her.

                  “He watches over the Greenwood forest. I was traveling far outside the boundaries of the Elven kingdom one day when I ran into him.” She said.

                  “Mm.” Thorin grunted, and then looked at her. “Can he be trusted?”

                  She gave him a peculiar look. It was not often that Thorin turned to her for information, or trusted her judgment. Actually, he’d never done either of those things.

                  “Well enough.” She decided. “Harmless, certainly.”

                  “And how are you doing?” He asked, looking slightly uncomfortable for asking. He would not meet her eyes, but instead scanned the forest.

                  “Well, I should probably be dead after taking a hit like that.” She said, “With that taken into account, I’m marvelous.”

                 Thorin chuckled, shaking his head in silent wonder at her resilience, but he did not say anything else. It seemed to Evaine that darker thoughts pulled him away from her, for his smile soon faded into a deepening frown as he looked out into the trees.

                  The wizards were just on their way back to the group when Evaine sat up and gasped, a look of abject horror on her face.

                  “What is it?” Thorin was the first to ask, alarmed by the look on her face.

                  “There is an orc pack on our trail.” She said, using her wooden stick to get to her feet, panic rising inside her. “A warg scout is almost upon us.”

                  “We must move quickly then,” Thorin said, ushering the others to their feet. “Before it finds us and signals the others.”

                  “No!” She said, listening intently. “It’s too late for that.”

                  “What do you mean?”

                  “I mean it has already found us!” She snapped, taking her swords and backpack from Kili and putting them on.

Just after she said it, the warg scout howled to signal it’s pack that it had found them and topped over the ridge, growling triumphantly when it saw them and charging. The dwarves took it down easily, but there were over a dozen more on their way.

                  “Who did you tell of your quest? Beyond your kin.” Gandalf asked Thorin accusatorily.

                  “No one.”

                  “ _Who did you tell?_ ” Gandalf asked again.

                  “ _No one_ , I swear.” Thorin said again. “What in Durin’s name is going on?”

                  “We are being hunted.” Evaine said grimly, and then to Kili. “The second scout is topping the ridge. Ready your bow.”

                  Kili nodded, and took the warg down the second it was in sight.

                  “We have to get out of here!” One of the dwarves said.

                  “You’re ponies have bolted.” Evaine said, listening intently, even as she moved, “There is no other way.”

                  “I will head them off.” Radagast offered.

                  “Are you sure will be okay?” Evaine asked, and Radagast smiled.

                  “Oh, it was excellent to see you again, Evaine. I had wondered where you’d gone in recent weeks. But you worry too much. I have wandered that forest for a great deal longer than you.” He said kindly, “These creatures are not the worst I have faced.”

                  And with that she nodded, patting his shoulder affectionately and followed Gandalf.

                  “This way.” He said, leading them to the edge of the trees.

Ahead of them was a land of rocky outcroppings and thinning patches of forest. She recognized this land, from a trip she had taken with Thranduil, years ago. The was the land just outside of the Hidden Valley, where the Elven city of Rivendell laid.

                  She looked to Gandalf, about to point this out, but he shook his head and then looked to Thorin. Thorin would be reluctant to enter a hall of elves whether it saved their lives or not. So, she kept her mouth shut.

                  “Evaine, you cannot be running.” Kili protested quietly.

                  “You cannot carry me, Kili.” She said dismissively. “You’ll get us both killed.”

                  Just then, Radagast burst into the clearing, his rabbits hauling him faster than anything she’d ever seen, and making as much noise as possible. He was only on the move for a few seconds before wargs darted past them, hot on his trail. The orcs shouted orders to each other and the pack split into several groups, hoping to ambush the old wizard.

                  “You cannot lead us if you are the slowest here.” Thorin reasoned.

“Then I will not _be_ the slowest.” She growled, ignoring further protests and looking to Gandalf, who nodded and whispered ‘ _Now_.’

                  Evaine took off, with all of them on her trail, using her enhanced senses to scout the path ahead, and they made their way across the land a little at a time, moving as quickly as possible while sticking to the patches of trees and the shadows of boulders.

                  Evaine was moving so quickly, and with such determination that the pain and dizziness had not had a chance to catch up on her, but she knew it was coming. She needed a plan.

                  They had made quite a bit of progress when they ducked into another circle of trees and Evaine stopped to listen. All of the orcs were still on Radagast’s trail, except for one. One had stopped and was whispering something in its Black speech.

“ _Suspicious . . . suspicious.”_

                  She opened her eyes to find that she was alone, and growled before following Gandalf to the shadow of a large stone outcropping.

                  “What part of me _leading_ was confusing?” She snapped in quiet exasperation.

“The part where you were nearly crushed by a troll two hours ago.” Kili retorted, but she ignored him.

“One of them’s caught on.” She announced quietly. Just then, the orc and his warg topped the boulder they were pressed against, sniffing and mumbling again.

                  Thorin looked to Kili, and then at his bow, and Kili readied himself to shoot, but Evaine shook her head. She looked determinedly at the dwarves and put her finger over her mouth, conveying a single message ‘ _No matter what happens, stay quiet_.’ And then she pointed in the direction that they needed to go.

                  Evaine then skirted around the boulder before climbing up behind the warg, unsheathing her sword.

                  “Go.” She said at normal volume, so that the dwarves clearly understood that this was their cue to move. And then, she beheaded the orc before it could even get a chance to make a noise, and pushed it off of the warg.

                  Growling, the warg turned on her and prepared to howl for the others.

                  “Silence.” Evaine said, holding up her hand. The animal paused, ragged ears perked up as if she had said something it understood, and lowered its head. It circled her, and she turned with it, so that she was always facing it head on, locking eyes with the animal and holding them there. Her gaze was steady, but not hostile. It snarled and snapped and flashed it’s terrifying canines, but she did not move, or flinch, or back down.

                  Finally, it stopped, facing her, and simply looked at her with a sort of wary curiosity. Its eyes held a sort of bitter brokenness, put there by years of cruelty that it had faced at the hands of its masters, and the jaws of its fellow wargs. Evaine relaxed from her authoritative stance—though careful to keep an air of it about her.

                  “Hey there, girl.” She said softly. “Easy.” She held out her hand, and the warg snarled at first, then sniffed it, and then snarled again at the smell of dwarf, but the second growl lacked substance, as if it was no longer sure what to do. Once it was accustomed to Evaine’s smell, Evaine tentatively stepped forward and placed her hand on the snout of the beast. It’s lips curled around it’s teeth at the initial touch but, after a moment, it leaned into her hand, and closed its eyes.

                  Evaine let out a breathless laugh in relief and slowly sheathed her sword.

                  “That’s it.” Evaine encouraged, moving her hands up to scratch its ears, and then burying them in the coarse fur of its neck. “Now, I’m afraid I need your help.” She said, looking at the animal, who seemed to understand her perfectly.

                  Assuming that she could tame a warg had been quite the gamble. Evaine was notoriously good with animals—it was one of the reasons that she and Radagast got along so well—but wargs were extremely smart and historically devoted to their masters. Her skills, thankfully, had pulled through, and carefully, she climbed onto the wargs back and scanned the lands below her for the company.

                  Several hundred yards away, Thorin and company closed ranks, the orcs moving in. The orc pack had eventually caught on to Radagast’s game, and set off to chase down the dwarves instead, and they had caught them.

                  “Hold your ground!” Thorin called, his Elven blade held out in front of him. “Where is Gandalf?”

                  “He’s abandoned us!” Dwalin assumed, furious even as he moved in front of Ori, who was feebly shooting rocks at the wargs with his sling shot.

                  The orcs were about to go in for the kill, when a warg howled from atop a distant boulder. If Thorin had been paying attention, he would have seen that it was the same boulder on top of which Evaine had saved all of their skins. He did not have time to worry about her now. It was neither rational nor convenient, and still anxiety ate at his stomach. _Worry about the rest of the company. Focus on the present._

                  The warg call would not be enough to draw the orc pack away from the company, but Evaine could see from the back of the warg that Gandalf had led the dwarves right to the secret entrance of the Hidden Valley. They were right were they needed to be. They had only needed a distraction, so that is what she gave them. She nudged her warg and it tilted its head skyward and howled, as loud as it could.

                  The orc pack turned to face the noise, for only a moment.

                  “This way, you fools!” Gandalf yelled from the hidden entrance, and all of the dwarves managed to dive into the cave before the orcs could catch them.

                  The orcs moved in on the cave entrance, braced for an attack, but their immediate enemy did not come from the rocks. A team of elves riding horseback side-blinded them, taking out nearly all of the orcs with arrows and leaving the rest to run away.

                  An orc was thrown from its warg into the mouth of the cave, where it rolled right to the feet of the company, the shaft of an arrow protruding from its chest.

                  Dwalin reached down and jerked the arrow from its body and examined the head.

                  “Elves.” He deduced, looking to the others.

                  “Nine, ten, eleven . . .” Gandalf counted all of them, “Twelve . . . Dori, where is Dori? Ah! There you are! And Bilbo is here as well. Alright, that is everyone.”

                  “No.” Thorin corrected, “Not everyone. Evaine is still out there.”

                  “Evaine made her choice, Master Thorin.” Gandalf said, “And if she has proven anything to you it is that she is well capable of taking care of herself.”

                  “But she was hurt already!” Kili protested. “She could hardly walk!”

                  “I never saw her after she left us, lad.” Dwalin said, tossing the arrow aside. “How can we even be sure that she’s still . . .”

                  Thorin turned away, his anger clear in his stance, though none of them could see his face.

                  “Brother.” Balin placed a hand on Dwalin’s shoulder, looking at Thorin with pity in his expression. “Best not to talk of that now.”

                  “I’m just saying, she didn’t make us leave her behind so that we could be killed looking for her.” Dwalin said, though his eyes were regretful, and his tone softened. “Thorin, I’m sorry. She would have wanted us to move on.”

                  “And let us not forget that the girl took on three mountain trolls alone,” Fili said, “With nothing but a handful of fireworks and a dagger. If anyone can make it out of there it’s her.”

                  “Yeah, and she knows the way to the mountain—“

                  “We are wasting time.” Thorin said, his tone clipped and ice cold. “Gandalf, are we to follow this cave, or did you lead us into this hole for nothing?”

                  “Right, yes . . .” Gandalf said, though he was surveying Thorin’s expression, a peculiar look on his face. “Follow the tunnels.”

                  Thorin nodded without a word and set off at a brisk pace, the others exchanging worried looks before following him.


	16. Chapter 16

Rivendell. Thorin had lost Evaine to a pack of orcs while following Gandalf, only to have the old wizard lead him to _Rivendell_. He looked out at the enchanting valley as if he could have burned it all to the ground.

                  “Here.” Thorin said quietly. “Evaine died so that you could lead us here.”

                  His rage was reaching a point of savagery. He could have driven his sword through Gandalf’s chest right then and there, and spilled his blood all over the elves’ sacred halls.

                  “You want to reclaim the mountain, and we have questions that need answers.” Gandalf said, “And as for Evaine, well, you are counting her out far too easily, Master Thorin. In fact, I am sure that were she here she’d be offended at your lack of faith in her.”

Gandalf chuckled and though he would not dare show it, Thorin’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. She would have been angry with him for doubting her so quickly, this was true. But the odds were so heavily stacked against her that he could not help it, and a wave of grief, and anger at the elf girl tore the smile from his face.

“Plus, she knew exactly where I was leading you, and she knows how to get here herself. And currently there is a hunting party of elves sweeping the lands around the valley for stray orcs.” Gandalf reasoned, “If she is hurt out there, or lost . . . or indeed dead, she will turn up.”

Thorin did not say another word and Gandalf either took this as a moment of weakness or a sign of compliance, for either way he stepped up, clapping his hands together and setting off down the path to the city.

“Now, in order to get what we want, this will need to be handled with tact, and respect . . . and no small degree of charm. Which is why I will need all of you,” Gandalf gestured to the dwarves, who were following him, “To keep your mouths shut.”

                  Several of them grumbled at this, mumbling retorts or profanities, but all of them followed, and looked in wonder at the city below them. Gandalf led them across a stone bridge and onto a large platform, where an elf met them.

                  “Mithrandir.” He greeted Gandalf, gliding gracefully down the steps in red robes.

                  “Ah! Lindir.” Gandalf greeted kindly, “I must speak with Lord Elrond.”

                  “I am afraid Lord Elrond is not here.”

                  “Not here . . .” Gandalf knit his eyebrows. “Where is he?”

                  Just then, a horn sounded from behind them and the dwarves were suddenly charged and surrounded by the hunting party that had slain the orcs. The dwarves, of course, took this as a sign of aggression and, under Thorin’s orders, closed ranks once again and raised their weapons.

                  As the dwarves were circled, one of the elves moved forward.

                  “Gandalf the Grey.” The dark-haired elf greeted. His features were proud and noble, and his armor bore embellishments that the rest did not. It was clear that he was someone of importance.

                  “Ah, Lord Elrond.” Gandalf said fondly. “My friend, how have you been?”

                  “I am doing well.” Elrond said, dismounting his horse and placing his hand affectionately on Gandalf’s shoulder. Then, he seemed to notice the dwarves. “And who do you travel with on this fine evening, Gandalf?” As if on cue, Thorin stepped forward, regarding Lord Elrond shrewdly. “But of course, you need no introduction, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain.” Elrond bowed respectfully.

                  “I do not believe we have met.” Thorin said coldly.

                  “You have you’re grandfather’s bearing.” Elrond said, ignoring him, “I knew Thror when he ruled under the mountain.”

                  “Is that so? He made no mention of _you_.” Thorin said. The longer he remained in the company of elves, no matter how courteous, his fury brewed and burned hotter and hotter. Their very presence made the hilt of his sword seem all the more comfortable in his hand, and he found himself grinding his teeth against the thought of violence. He had to focus on the greater good. On the mountain.

Elrond did not seem phased by the dwarf king’s lack of manners, but instead spoke to Thorin in in his native tongue.

                  The dwarves, none of whom spoke Elvish, took this as a personal insult.

                  “What is he saying?” Gloin growled, raising his axe and stepping forward, only to be held back by Balin. “Does he offer us INSULT?!”

                  “He is offering you _food_ , Master Gloin.” Gandalf corrected, a look of exasperation on his face.

                  “Oh,” Gloin turned to consult with the others behind him and then turned back around. “In that case, then, lead on.”

                  Elrond smiled.

                  “Lindir, lead the dwarves to my dining terrace.”

                  “Please, my Lord.” Lindir said, “There is another.”

                  “Another?” Lord Elrond said, “What do you mean?”

                  Lindir stepped closer and whispered something in Elrond’s ear.

                  “ . . . from the Woodland Realm?” Elrond asked incredulously. Thorin looked up. “ . . . she’s brought a _what?_ Most unusual . . .”

                  “What is it?” Thorin demanded. “It is Evaine? Is that who you speak of?”

                  “I’m afraid, Lord Elrond, that Lady Evaine was traveling with us when the orcs attacked.” Gandalf said, in a milder tone, shooting a warning look at Thorin. “We would be very interested to know if she is alright.”

                  “Yes, of course.” He said, “Lady Evaine and her pet are both quite alright. In fact, it appears that she was just as worried about all of you. I will see to it that she knows of your arrival. Shall we?”

There was simultaneous breath of relief amongst the whole company, and they cheered. Thorin, for the second time that day, was so relieved to hear that Evaine was alright that he could have dropped to his knees and wept. He turned away from the company and closed his eyes in a silent prayer of thanks.

                  “You alright, lad?” Balin asked, coming to stand beside him. Thorin turned to face the old dwarf.

                  “That girl is taking my sanity from me one piece at a time, Balin, I swear it.” Thorin growled.

                  “Aye, well, it doesn’t feel like we have much to spare, does it?” Balin chuckled, and Thorin nodded in agreement, a small smile on his face. “But eh . . . I don’t think your sanity is what she’s stealing, lad.” Balin patted the center of Thorin’s chest, a little to the left: his heart. Thorin looked down, confused, and then as he realized what Balin meant, his eyes widened. Balin merely gave him an understanding look and then turned to join the rest of them as they trod up the steps.

                  Thorin looked around to ensure that none of the company had heard their conversation. What Balin said terrified him, and he could not quite figure out why. Evaine? _Stealing his heart?_ He shook the very thought of it from his head and turned to catch up with the rest of them.

                  “Yes but,” Kili paused as they climbed, “Did Evaine _have_ a pet?” All of the dwarves looked to each other for an answer, but found none.

                  “Not last we saw her, she didn’t.” Dwalin concluded finally, and they all shrugged and continued the climb into Rivendell.


	17. Chapter 17

 

                  Evaine lay behind silk drapes of dark maroon, on a comfortable cot while two elf women in white robes tended to her wounds. She was completely naked, so that all of her injuries could be assessed at once, and despite her exposure, was quite relaxed. It was hard not to be relaxed around the never-ending serenity of the elves of Rivendell. Though, admittedly, the two elves working on her were a bit less serene, what with Fenris in the room.

Fenris was the warg that Evaine had tamed in the lands outside of Rivendell. She had already named her. Fenris had not left Evaine’s side since Evaine had climbed on her back, and got quite aggressive with anyone who tried to separate them. It was for this reason that the huge dog lay beside Evaine in the floor of the infirmary now, watching the elf girls’ every move to insure that they did not try to hurt her.

                  One of the girls, with long dark hair that fell in waves, placed three of her fingers on Evaine’s ribcage and began applying pressure in different places.

                  “Does that hurt?” She kept asking, and Evaine replied no until she hit the right spot, and instead of speaking, Evaine winced and sucked air through her teeth. Fenris’ ears perked up, and her lips curled fractionally. “I will take that as a yes.” The young girl smiled, though she glanced at the dog. “It is only cracked, nothing we cannot fix.”

                  Evaine nodded and laid back, letting them work. There were several other cracks and fractures in her ribs which they tended, but the pain began to recede almost immediately. She and Fenris had already bathed. As soon as she told Lindir who she was, he welcomed them both (though a bit reluctant to allow the warg entrance) and had one of the servants escort her to one of the largest bath houses she had ever seen.

                 The ceilings were arched, and dozens of small windows let in just the right amount of light. The room itself was octagonal, each of the eight walls made entirely of mirrors. On a bench by the door lay stacks upon stacks of thin, soft towels, and in the middle of the room, sunk into the floor, was the tub. It was perfectly round and fourteen feet in diameter, already filled with fresh hot water, and directly opposite from the steps used to get into it was a huge network of faucets. There could have easily been a hundred of them. The servant explained that each of them dispensed a different soap, or scent, or oil.

                 Fenris lounged at the edge of the tub, one paw splashing restlessly at the water as Evaine asked the elf girl to leave them and undressed. She played around with some of the faucets, one released lavender oil, one released a sweet-smelling soap not unlike that she had used at the Bywater Inn. It felt good to have an actual bath in an actual bathtub instead of scrubbing off in a creek in the middle of the forest, and she didn’t fight the hot water as it worked to unwind the knots in her shoulders and steep the pain from her bruises. Once she was clean, and a soft bathrobe tied around her, she tended to Fenris.

                 The saddle she wore was well-fitted to the orc who rode her, but not so well fitted to her. Evaine could see where the rough material had rubbed her fur away and left the skin raw, even bleeding in some spots, and that was only the beginning of the abuse the poor animal had faced. The reins with which the orc steered the animal were hooked to a leather harness that went around her snout, and the harness was fixed with small blades, so that it dug into the flesh of her nose and made the animal easier to control.

                “What on earth have you suffered through, dear?” Evaine asked quietly, petting the warg’s snout. Fenris merely closed her eyes and leaned into the touch as she did before.

                Her fur was being eaten away and matted by filth, fleas, and mange. Evaine could not do anything for her wounds right now, but she could do something about that.

                Slowly, Evaine unhooked the saddle. It looked as if it had been put on Fenris when she was still growing, and had not been taken off since, so it would be painful to remove it. Evaine slowly lifted it, crooning and soothing the animal with her words. She could see it pulling at the raw skin as she took it off and Fenris let out a high pitched wine.

                “Shhhhh . . . we’re almost done.” Evaine said, lifting and pulling gently, at a steady pace, “Almost done . . .”

               The saddle was finally off and Evaine tossed it aside. Fenris’ breathing shallowed for a moment and then her lungs expanded in a way that could not have been possible in the saddle and she breathed deeply for the first time in a very long time.

               “Alright,” Evaine said, both to herself and to Fenris, “Now we’ve got to get this off.”

              She moved up to touch the harness, but clearly it was very, very sore, because Fenris let out a mixture of a bark and a yelp and jumped backward. Though her lips were pulled back in a snarl, her breathing was fast and her tail was curled back between her legs.

               Evaine held up her hands, though her heart was breaking for the animal, and she stepped forward.

               “We’ve got to do this together, okay?” Evaine cooed, in a voice that could put a grown man to sleep, “I want you to look at me.” The animal was clearly unwilling, and frightened out of its mind, but it obeyed her, and Evaine’s fingers unclasped the harness, moving it as little as possible. “Just . . . look . . . at me . . .” Carefully, she pulled the harness, tilting the blades so that they would do as little damage as possible on the way out. Fenris snarled, and Evaine paused, glancing warily at the animal’s jaws, so very close to her head, but she made no move to attack, and so Evaine tentatively continued.

               She threw the harness to the ground, the blades hitting the marble floor with a clang, leaving small drops of blood.

               “See? Not so bad.” Evaine smiled. She couldn’t be sure but she was fairly sure the animal was glaring at her. “Now, to get you washed up . . . follow me.”

               Evaine tied her bathrobe closed, and opened the heavy wooden door with a sound that must have echoed through the whole valley.

               “Lady Evaine,” And elf greeted her, with a small bow, “I trust your bath was satisfactory?”

              “It was excellent, thank you.” Evaine said, “But would you mind showing me to another bath house? It would not have to be as accommodating as this one, I just need something rather large, with fresh warm water.”

             He glanced at her, then at Fenris who standing behind her, easily matching the elf’s height on all fours.

             “It would be my pleasure.” He said eventually. And so he had led them to a far less extravagant bath house, and Evaine eventually—and not without a massive amount of cooing and persuasion—got Fenris clean.

            Once she was clean, even though her wounds were still raw, she was a great deal less intimidating. Her fur was not black or muddy brown, but instead a dark, mercury grey, and though her fur was still patchy from all of the scarring and the mange, the skin underneath looked healthier, and Evaine suspected that her fur would all grow in eventually. Fenris felt better, she could tell, though she was still in pain from the saddle and harness wounds, and defiantly flashing her teeth at the elves, her eyes held a sort of luster that had not been there before.

             The elves had mixed an herbal poultice (which is a fancy term for something that looks like chewed spinach) in case she’d had any open wounds, but as she had only the one on her hand from the previous morning, it went virtually unused.

             “Does this remedy work on all creatures?” Evaine asked, gesturing to the mixture.

            The elves glanced at Fenris.

            “I don’t see why not.” Said the one who’d checked her ribs. “The poultice draws pain and infection from the open wound, as well as prevents scarring. Would you like for me to treat her?”

            The other elf looked at her like she was crazy.

            “Best not.” Evaine said, “She’s a bit temperamental still yet. Just leave your supplies, I will take care of it myself.”

            The elves nodded and then bowed out and left Evaine to tend to the wounds of her new pet.


	18. Chapter 18

                   Once Fenris had been taken care of and Evaine had been brought a proper gown, she was notified that the dwarves had finally arrived and set out in the direction of Elrond’s dining terrace immediately. Fenris padded along behind her at a leisurely pace, equally sullen about having to wear all of the silly-looking bandages and delighted that the pain she’d learned to live with was rapidly easing up.

                   After perusing several staircases and corridors she finally found it, and made her way out onto the terrace where the dwarves were all chatting around a large dinner table, while Gandalf, Elrond, and Thorin all stood a ways away, talking in low voices.

                   “Ah! There she is!” Gandalf greeted her happily, “My dear Evaine, you look lovely!”

                   No one on the terrace could have argued with Gandalf.

                  Thorin cursed Mahal for bringing this infuriating, pig-headed woman into his life, and especially for making her so god-forsakenly alluring. To say that the Elven kingdom looked well on her was an understatement. It was bad enough that he was distracted by her when they were on the road, bathing in murky stream water and sleeping in the dirt. Now, she walked the Elven halls, and gone was the wary, guarded quality of someone who had spent the recent weeks glancing over their shoulder. Instead, she carried a peaceful confidence about her, clearly showing that she knew this place, and that she was comfortable here. She donned a gown the same color of her eyes, the color of smoky emeralds, not yet polished so they still retained their secrets. It was made of thin silk that clung to her body in all the right places, with a slit up the side that revealed her pale flesh all the way up to her thigh. The color of the garment seemed to bring out every possible shade of red in her hair, even as it was pulled back in a very loose braid, which left stray strands to frame her face. Her injuries were fading, almost unnoticeable with the help of Rivendell’s healers, and her smile was radiant as she looked around and found all of them alive and well.

                  “Thank the gods, you’re all alright. I knew Gandalf would get you here safe enough.” Evaine said, relieved.

                  The company, who were stunned into silence upon seeing her, suddenly erupted in furious clapping and wolf-whistling. She smiled and looked down.

 

                  “Yeah well, you lot don’t get used to it.” She called over them, smiling to hide her blush. All of them then erupted in raucous laughter, and she busied herself greeting their host. Fenris followed her as she walked toward Elrond where he stood, with Gandalf and Thorin, stepping in full view of the dwarves for the first time. “Lord Elrond, it is good to see you-”

                  “Evaine what in Mahal’s name is that?” Thorin asked, taking a step back, his hand instinctively going to his sword.

                  The entire company had gone silent, and were staring at Fenris with wide eyes and gaping mouths.

                  “Is that a wolf?!” Bilbo asked alarmed.

                   “I . . . do not know.” Balin said hesitantly. Fenris looked more like a wolf than a warg, now that she was clean, but she was not fooling all of the dwarves.

                  “No, that is not a wolf.” Dwalin said menacingly, his axes ready to be thrown.

                  “Don’t, Dwalin.” Evaine stepped in front of Fenris. “She won’t hurt you.”

                  “Evaine, what is the meaning of this?” Thorin stepped forward cautiously, his hand on his sheathed sword.

                  “Her name is Fenris, and all of you owe her your life.” Evaine explained. “She’s mine.”

                  “You know you aren’t bringing that thing with us . . . right?” Thorin said uncertainly.

                  “Mm-hmm. We’ll see.” She said. His eyebrows shot up. “Fenris, here.”

                  Fenris did as she said without objection, looking warily at the company, who simply mouthed wordlessly as they watched the vicious creature follow Evaine like a common pup.

                  “Evaine-” Thorin tried, but she cut him off, addressing Lord Elrond instead.

                  “Elrond,” She bowed to him, “The Valley is as beautiful as I remember it to be.”

                  “I’m surprised you remember it at all,” Elrond smiled fondly at her, “You were practically an infant when I saw you last. How is your father?”

                  “I . . . trust the kingdom is still thriving in my absence.” She said carefully, “Father was doing well last time I saw him . . . though I imagine he’s not been too fond of me in recent weeks.”

                  Elrond smiled. “Yes, well, I doubt this particular excursion of yours had his blessing.” He looked at the dwarves.

                  “It did not.” Evaine grinned sheepishly, “But there comes a time when all must leave the nest. I am not as fragile as he thinks.”

                  “Clearly.” Thorin said, looking out over the Valley. She shot him a look.

                  “Ah yes, well, there are a great many stories we could tell you, of Evaine and our travels,” Gandalf changed the subject, “But why don’t we start with . . . your pet, Evaine?”

                  And they all looked toward Fenris, who was sitting down and fiddling with a bandage on her paw.

                  “Right,” Evaine said, “Fenris here is the reason that all of us made it into Rivendell safely, as it turns out . . .” And she dove into the story of how she had killed the orc and tamed Fenris and distracted the rest of the orcs so that the company could get into the Hidden Pass safely, and then one thing led to another and she was telling her story of how she had taken down the mountain trolls almost all by herself, nearly dying in the process, and then Gandalf proceeded to exaggerate every single time she had proven herself useful by hearing an enemy approach or spotting a passing orc pack from the trees.

                  “You’re father thinks too little of you, Evaine.” Elrond said, “And if he asks me of your whereabouts, or who you are with, I will tell him that, instead.”

                  Evaine looked down. “Thank you, Lord Elrond.”

                  At which point, the topic of their quest came up, and Elrond led them to a more private setting. Gandalf had led Thorin to Rivendell because he had a sneaking suspicion that there was more information hidden on the map of the Lonely Mountain, and if there was, Lord Elrond was the best person to find it. But to say that Thorin was not willing to hand over the map was an understatement.

                  “For goodness sake, Thorin. Show him the map.” Gandalf argued, as Elrond waited patiently and silently.

                  “It is the legacy of my people and it is mine to protect.” Thorin said coolly, “As are its secrets.”

                  “Oh, spare me the stubbornness of dwarves!” Gandalf snapped.

                  “Give it to me, then.” Evaine stepped forward, looking Thorin in the eyes as she gently placed her hand on the one of his that clutched the map.

                  He did his best to ignore her hand. “Can you read the map?” Thorin asked her.

                  “I might be able to, with help. But that would require you handing it to me.” She said, grinning. He scowled at her sarcasm and glanced down at her pale, delicate hand on his, and handed her the map.

                  She flattened the map out on a nearby table and examined it, with Elrond looking over her shoulder.

                  “Erebor,” Elrond murmured quietly, so that only she could hear, “What is their interest in this map?”

                  Evaine lied smoothly.

                  “These men have been without there true home for decades, as have I.” She said, “All possibilities of reclaiming it are lost until the dragon is dead, once and for all, and that could not be for centuries, or it could be tomorrow. So until the mountain can be restored to its rightful inhabitants, Thorin has resigned himself to finding out anything and everything about the kingdom.”

                  “So it is only academic?” Elrond looked at her.

                  “More of a coping mechanism, really.” Evaine said, “Something to focus on so they don’t all go mad.”

                  “Then,” Elrond asked, “Why do they need you?”

                  Evaine answered truthfully this time, looking back at Thorin.

                  “They’re my people.” She said, “They’ve shown me more of a home in the past weeks than I ever had in Mirkwood. I would do anything for them.” Her eyes caught a flash of something on the map in the moonlight. “Did you see that?”

                  “What?”

                  She lifted the parchment carefully, looking at it from different angles, and when Elrond saw it, he murmured something in Elvish.

                  “ _Moon runes._ ” Evaine translated, “Of course!”

                  “Moon runes can only be read by a moon of the same shape and season as the day on which it was written.” Elrond said.

                  Thorin looked to Evaine, “Can you read them?”

                  “We shall see.” She said, and took off back into the corridors and up the stairs.

                 There was one place in this entire city where Thranduil took her as a child that she would never forget. It was the highest platform of Rivendell that could be reached from inside the city, hidden behind waterfalls which magnified the moonlight as it hit a large crystalline table. The terrace was meant for reading things such as this.

                  Elrond, Gandalf, Balin, Bilbo and Thorin all arrived on the terrace minutes after she’d gotten there, and she was bent over the stone table, examining the document. Without looking up, she spoke.

                  “These runes were written on a Midsummer’s Eve, by the light of a crescent moon nearly 200 years ago.” She murmured.

                  “Well, it would seem you were meant to come to Rivendell.” Elrond said, surprised. “Fate is with you, Thorin Oakenshield, for the same moon shines upon us tonight.”

                  Just as he said it, the moon moved out from behind a cloud, and it’s pale rays seemed to light the entire table as it reflected and refracted off of the crystal, shining both down on the document, and up through it, and they all gathered around to watch as the silvery letters revealed themselves.

                  “My ancient dwarvish is not the best.” Evaine said, “Lord Elrond . . ?”

                  Elrond obliged, stepping forward and read the runes aloud in common speech.

                  “Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks . . . and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day . . . will shine upon the keyhole.”

                  “Summer is almost over, Durin’s Day will soon be upon us.” Evaine pointed out.

                  “This is ill news.” Thorin said, running his fingers through his hair.

                  “There is still time to find the entrance.” Balin reasoned, “We will have to be in the right place at the right time. Then and only then can the door be opened.”

                  “Yes, otherwise we will have to wait a year for another opportunity.” Evaine said, thinking hard.

                  “So this _is_ your purpose, then?” Elrond said, “To enter the mountain.”

                  Evaine avoided his gaze.

                  “What of it?” Thorin challenged. Elrond fixed him with an unflinching gaze.

                  “There are some who would not deem it wise.”

                  “Who?” Gandalf interjected, “Who do you speak of?”

                  Elrond looked at him, then at the dwarves and Bilbo, and merely signaled for Gandalf to follow him. Gandalf gave them a grim look before obliging.

                  “Do you think he is in trouble?” Bilbo asked.

                  “Gandalf is a wizard.” Evaine said, “He’s not answerable to much of anyone.”

                  “Well, Bilbo and I best be getting back to the others.” Balin said, “Someone’s got to make sure they don’t cause any trouble.”

                  Bilbo seemed about to argue but Balin tugged him by his arm, leaving Thorin and Evaine alone on the terrace.

 

Thorin silently cursed Balin’s meddling, and turned to say something to Evaine, only to find that she was sitting at the edge of the balcony, her feet dangling over the edge. Thorin closed his eyes at what he was about to do and took a seat beside her.

                  “You know there are safer places to sit.” Thorin said, nudging her shoulder. “Though your own safety has clearly not been a priority of late.”

                  She shot him a look.

                  “Is that your way of saying thank you? It’s not a very good one.” Her tone was not hostile, but the words still stung him.

                  “No, I suppose not.” He said quietly, and he seemed to chew on his next words before saying them. “You did not have to save me.” He whispered. “I think we’d both agree, I have not earned such a kindness. Not from you.”

                  She scrutinized him, as if judging his sincerity, and then looked back out at the valley.

“Well,” She waved it off. “Suppose my loyalty outweighs my general annoyance.”

                  He chuckled.

                  “You are making it very difficult for me to continue disrespecting you, you know.” He said, amused, “After all I have done nothing but that and here you are, almost dead for the third time in two days because of me. Once by my own hand.”

                  “None of which were your fault.” She pointed out.

                  “No,” He agreed, not looking at her, “It is neither of our faults that I was nearly trampled by a troll, or that we were ambushed by orcs . . . or that the horrors in my past come to haunt me at night.” The way that he said it made her chest hurt for him, “ . . . But I am continuously rude to you, constantly insulting you whenever I get the chance, and _still_ . . . you _choose_ to put yourself in danger for me. I just . . . I do not understand how you can be so kind.” He shook his head and looked into the waterfall. She was not sure what to say. “How is your hand?” He asked suddenly. It appeared to be an attempt at changing the subject.

                  “The healers took care of it.” She watched him carefully, “It should be little more than a scar by the morning.”

He surprised her by taking her hand in his to examine it himself.

                  “Your hands are so soft,” He said distractedly, and then let out a breathless laugh, “And mine so rough.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles as she watched him. Just this small contact, his skin to hers was enough to set his teeth on edge.

She grabbed his hand with the one he was fiddling with, quickly but gently, as if she didn’t want to give him the chance to pull away, and turned it over. Slowly, she began inspecting his rough palm, the pulps of her fingers probing curiously, and then she was drawing patterns, trailing her fingers down the length of his and tracing the words of a silent symphony into his skin. It was like watching someone play an instrument, the way her fingers curled and fluttered over his calloused skin. Then she looked up at him.

                  “I don’t mind.” She murmured softly.

                  This small action was enough to send any ounce of reservation he had crumbling like a house of cards, every nerve in his body on end, heat rushing his cheeks and crawling up his neck. He could no longer stand it.

                  He imagined himself jumping to his feet, pulling her with him. He imagined wrapping his arms completely around her tiny frame, as close to him as possible. He imagined her whimpering against his kiss, fisting her hands in his hair. He imagined once again what he’d thought about a thousand times before: what her lips must taste like, her breath, her skin. He imagined how she could not possibly be all made of hard muscle and armor and blades. Could he be the one to soften her? Even in fleeting moments, her flesh rising to his touch, gentle and then rough, gentle and then rough . . .

                  He imagined himself doing all of it, but in the end did nothing.

                  “I . . .” He looked her over, leaning away as if he could not show enough restraint in such proximity. He coughed to get ahold of himself. “We need to get back to the Company.”

                  “Of course.” She said.

Her tone was short, her expression was unreadable. Like in the days before. _Evaine, take first watch_ , he’d have said, an order. _Of course_ , she’d reply, neither pleased nor displeased. All business. All muscle and armor and blades. Indifference.

                  He faltered for a moment at the tone, unsure, and then he was gone, striding from the balcony and leaving her rooted to the spot.

 _Fool._ Thorin berated himself. Surely, the quest for the mountain must be taking a toll on his sanity. He blamed Balin, for encouraging feelings that he wasn’t even sure of, for forcing him to make his move, and for sticking his bulbous nose where it did not belong. What in Durin’s name was the old dwarf thinking? _What in Durin’s name was I thinking?_ He stopped in an unfamiliar corridor and closed his eyes.

                  “Stupid.” He murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Stupid, stupid, _idiotic fool_.”

                  By the time he had schooled his expression into one of stony impassiveness and found his way back to the terrace on which the dwarves had set up camp, Evaine was already there.

                  “I was about to come looking for you.” She said quietly, casually, coldly. “Get lost?”

                  He tried to gauge whether it was mockery he sensed in her voice or not, but found that as unreadable as her expression. So much he could not read about her. So little she revealed to him. _Although that’s hardly her fault_ , he thought sourly. He found himself oddly nervous. Oddly possessed to tread lightly around her. He’d been compromised by her. He’d compromised himself.

                  “No.” He said. She glanced up at him and then back down. “Someone should take watch.” He added.

                  She rolled her eyes but said nothing. “I’ll do it.”

                  His nerves shortened his temper and his lip curled, anticipating a snapping remark about her attitude, but he said nothing. Silently, petulantly, he lay down on his cot and closed his eyes.


	19. Chapter 19

                  Evaine stayed awake to keep watch, despite how stupid she thought the reasoning behind Thorin’s order was. She found she was annoyed at herself for feeling obligated to follow his orders no matter how unfounded they were. She did not sleep whatsoever that night, and a good thing too, for in the smallest hours of the morning, before the sun had even hit the valley, Gandalf came looking.

                  “What is it?” Evaine asked him, standing quickly.

                  “Nothing yet, Evaine, but Lord Elrond was not pleased to hear of our quest, and I fear that he may try to stop us.” Gandalf said.

                  “You want us to sneak out?” Evaine asked incredulously.

                  “I think that may be our only option.” Gandalf said, and then looked at her, “Are you alright? You seem distracted.”

                  “There’ll be no talk of that now. We don’t have time.” She said dismissively, “I will rouse them—where are you going?”

                  “Lord Elrond has called for a meeting with me at dawn, that is why I have come to you so early.” Gandalf said quickly and then glanced at the sky behind them, just now beginning to lighten, “I must go now. Look after them, Evaine.”

                  And then he was gone. Yawning, she set about the business of rousing all the dwarves and informing them on the situation. She left waking Thorin to Balin.

 

                  She saw Thorin jump awake from the corner of her eye, the tremble in his hands that steadied after a second or two. She still wondered what was so nightmarish that it shook someone as resolute as him. She forced her attention away when his eyes found her.

                  Evaine whistled a low whistle and Fenris stirred from the corner, stretching and yawning before moving over beside her and sitting down again.

                  “The warg cannot come with us, Evaine, you are aware of that?” Thorin said levelly, tightening the straps on his boots. In truth, he wouldn’t hardly have noticed the dog if he hadn’t been bridled by her indifference to him.

                  Evaine ground her teeth. _Keep your mouth shut. Keep your mouth shut._

“Why not?” She turned on her heel to face him.

                  “We do not need one more mouth to feed.” Thorin said, almost dismissively. “Make haste with packing, gentlemen. We will have to hurry.”

                  “Thorin, can I have a word with you? Privately.” Evaine asked, in a tone that made it clear she wasn’t really asking. Eyebrows shot up and eyes flicked between them, several of the gentlemen stopped packing.

                  Thorin glanced up at her, and then at the rest of the company before cursing silently and following her. She led him into the corridor and around a corner onto another balcony before turning to face him.            

                  “Evaine I am not letting you bring your pet--”

                  “Thorin for the sake of the gods do not pretend this isn’t about last night.” She said levelly.

                  He came up short, looked at her, and then said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

                  She looked him over for a second and then closed her eyes and spoke. “Thorin . . . I do not pretend to know what sort of . . . grievance you’ve taken up with me, whether it’s the elf thing or because I’m a woman . . .” She shook her head and then glowered up at him. “But I am not here to go round and round with you, or to be walked all over, or to be patient with you while you try to figure out how you feel about me.” His lips pursed and his eyes dropped, “So whatever sort of problems you’re having I’d be grateful if you left me out of it.”

                  She waited for something, any kind of reaction from him.

                  “The dog follows us from a distance.” Thorin said finally. “It joins us only at night. It gets its own food or starves. And if you can’t keep a leash on it-”

                  She rolled her eyes before he’d even finished the sentence and turned on her heel and stormed off, leaving him to wonder what exactly he’d said to set her off.

 

                  “I’m keeping the warg.” She briefly announced to the others, who were waiting to see the outcome of her and Thorin’s disagreement, and then set to work throwing things angrily in her bag and sheathing her weapons. The rest of them shared looks of alarm but stayed deathly quiet, even when Thorin reentered the room in brooding silence. And with all of them ready to go, Evaine made sure that Fenris knew to keep quiet and as the sneakiest one of the group, she went first.

                  It was quite a bit easier than Evaine thought it was going to be, sneaking out of the city. They only ran into one guard on the way out and had to duck into another corridor, but within fifteen minutes, they were looking down at the city from the rocky path that led straight into the heart of the Misty Mountains.

                  “Be on your guard,” Thorin called as they climbed, “We are about to step over the Edge of the Wild. Balin, you know these lands. Lead on.”

                  Balin obliged, stepping in front of Evaine trudging up the path. Evaine paused for a breath, letting the others pass her. Thorin, who was pulling up the rear of the group, stopped beside her.

                  “Are you okay?” He asked her quietly, genuine concern in his features.

                  “You don’t care, remember?” She snapped, and walked on.

                  He caught up to her. “I don’t remember saying that.”

                  “Really? You seemed to make it so abundantly clear.”

                  “I’m sorry. Perhaps you could inform me as to exactly what I’ve done wrong, Elf.” He hissed in her ear as they trudged up the narrow path.

                  “Nothing, _Dwarf._ ” She quipped. “I told you to figure out your feelings toward me and clearly you’ve done so. All I ask now is that you leave me walk in peace.”

                  “That’s funny. I don’t recall stating my feelings for—about you—either. I must have missed half of our conversation.” He snapped.

                  “Your complete _ignorance_ of the issue was telling enough.” She hissed.

                  He fought to control his temper, and then said, this time at a normal volume so that the rest of the company could hear, “Evaine, once we are off this path you should send your pet to scout ahead. We must be careful in these lands.”

                  She moved past Kili, directly in front of her, and began to work her way to the front of the group.

                  “Yes, sir.” She called behind her, unnecessarily loud, her voice thick with sarcasm and venom. She thought, when she passed Dwalin, he was laughing.


	20. Chapter 20

                  Hours crept on, and the harsh and fast-changing landscape of the mountains was even more unforgiving with her lack of rest the previous night, but she remained in good spirits—even despite her quarrel with Thorin. In some places, though the climbing was not as arduous, the company found themselves wading through thickets of brambles, or avoiding patches of impenetrable forest. And whenever they had gotten too high in altitude for the trees to grow—when breathing began to feel like inhaling shards of glass—the landscape steepened as if to make up for it. And then ice replaced anything green, and they were hiking across barren, glacier-cut peaks and skirting along rocky ledges so thin that they had to walk sideways. But the worst was when the storm hit.

                  Inching along the petrous shelf—only a few feet at the widest—was the least of their problems. The wind coursed through valley with all the speed of a gushing river, either beating them against the rocks or threatening to tear them away. Rain fell in massive sheets, freezing enough that it felt like shrapnel every time it hit them, but not so much that they weren’t completely soaked and shaking. Lightning split the sky like a sickening smile, thunder threatened to tear the mountains down around them with its deafening vibrations, and the clouds were so dark that seeing was near impossible.

                  Fenris had been sent to scout ahead, and—Evaine hoped—was trudging through this storm from a much safer altitude.

                  “Hold steady!” Thorin shouted over the storm, “We must find shelter!”

                  “LOOK OUT!!” Dwalin bellowed, pulling himself and Bilbo back against the wall as a massive boulder crashed above them and fell down in pieces.

                  “This is no thunderstorm,” Balin yelled, alarmed, “It’s a thunder-battle! Look!”

                  He pointed across the valley, where a gargantuan piece of rock had begun to move. As it took form, Evaine could discern a head-like shape, and jagged arms and legs. She watched in horror as it ripped a chunk of solid rock from the side of the mountain and threw it.

                  “Well, bless me.” Bofur said astonished, moving dangerously close to the ledge in order to get a better look. “The legends are true! Giants! Stone giants!”

                  “TAKE COVER, YOU FOOL!” Evaine screeched at him as the rock connected with the mountain just above her head and shattered. She stooped down and pressed herself painfully close to the wall to avoid getting hit.

Shards of the rock connected with the ledge on which they were standing and pieces of it fell away, taking away space that they sorely needed. But if any of them thought that it could not get worse, they were proven wrong. Shouts from the dwarves ahead of her informed her that something very, very bad was happening, and she looked up to see the company divided. In fact, the ledge, the whole mountain that they were climbing on was splitting. Evaine looked up in horror as she realized what was happening. They were standing on one of the stone giants, and he had just now decided to join the fight.

                  The giant managed to get himself into a standing position—with half of the company clinging to each leg—before the other giant head-butted him, sending him flying back against the mountain, his left leg connecting with the ledge long enough for Thorin and the first half of the dwarves to make it to solid, unmoving ground.

                  Thorin watched in abject terror as Evaine, Dwalin, Fili, Bilbo, Bofur, Bombur, and Ori held on for dear life. The stone giants fought to the death, and Thorin could not stop himself from screaming when a final blow sent their giant’s head flying off, and the rest of his body crashing into the mountain, inevitably crushing half of their company.

                  “NO!!” Thorin bellowed, running forward as the giants body toppled past them to the ground. “EVAINE!! DWALIN!!” He sprinted clumsily over the rocks, while the others struggled to keep up, not sure he wanted to see what was around the bend. “BOFUR? FILI? IS ANYONE ALIVE?” But he almost ran straight into Evaine, who, in turn, was coming to find the rest of them. “Evaine?”

                  Abruptly, she threw her arms around his neck and nearly crushed him in a hug. “I thought you were dead, you moron!” She shouted at him, their quarrel momentarily forgotten.

                  “The feeling’s not that pleasant is it?” Thorin said, laughing in careless relief. “Where’re the others? Are they alright?”

                  “I can’t find Bilbo,” Evaine said, “The rest are fine.”

                  “I’m here!” Came Bilbo’s tiny voice. And Evaine finally spotted him, barely hanging onto the ledge right below her feet.

                  “Bilbo!” She yelled, dropping flat on her stomach in an attempt to reach him, but he was too far down. “I can’t reach!”

                  Bofur and Dwalin both tried as well, but none of them could get down far enough. Suddenly, Thorin jumped over the side, using one hand to hold on himself while the other pulled Bilbo up enough that Evaine could reach him. She hauled him up and handed him over to Bofur, who pulled him safely against the wall.

Thorin had begun climbing back up when his hands slipped. He would have fallen had Evaine not caught his arm, nearly going over the side herself. She dug her fingers as far into the ledge as possible while her other hand was the only thing supporting his weight. She considered herself a very strong dwarf, but never had she thought Thorin would be this heavy. Her arm felt as if it were about to be ripped out of its socket. She had to pull or she was going to drop him.

                  Gritting her teeth against the pain, she began to haul him up.

                  “Easy does it, las.” Dwalin said, he was on his stomach like her, and as soon as she had pulled Thorin’s arm within his reach he grabbed on and together they yanked him back onto the ledge.

                  He collapsed against the wall, his breathing heavy, allowing himself but a moment’s rest before struggling to his feet.

                  “I think there is a cave up ahead.” He said between heaving coughs, “We must hurry.”

                  “Give us a moment, lad.” Dwalin said, “I thought we’d lost our burglar!”

                  “And our leader.” Evaine added, rubbing her shoulders.

                  “Master Baggins has been lost ever since he left home.” Thorin snapped, “We need to find shelter before he finds another way to get the rest of us killed.”

                  “Thorin.” Evaine reprimanded him, glancing at Bilbo, whose eyes had not left the ground.

Thorin met her eyes with a flicker of annoyance before cursing and turning away.

                  “The cave is just right here.” He said, his tone no longer harsh, but clearly sour. “Let us get out of this rain.”

                  “C’mon lad.” Evaine helped Bilbo to his feet with a kind smile. “Don’t mind him. You just get some rest.”

                  All of them entered the cave warily, their weapons out in front of them, for caves in the mountains were very rarely unoccupied.

                  Thorin voiced this concern, and Evaine and Dwalin set off to check to darkest recesses of the cave, but they had gotten lucky. The cave was empty.

Still, something about the place rubbed Evaine the wrong way.

                  “Alright, let’s get a fire started!”

                  “No. No fires in this place.” Thorin said, watching the torrential downpour outside with troubled eyes. “Get some sleep. We start at first light.”

                  “We were to wait in the mountains for Gandalf.” Balin objected, “That was the plan.”

                  “I agree with Thorin.” Evaine said. “We would be sitting ducks in this place. Gandalf will be able to find us wherever we are.”

                  Thorin nodded, though Balin still looked doubtful, and turned, “Bofur, take first watch.” He said, moving over to glance outside again.

“I do not like this place, Thorin.” Evaine said quietly. “Something is wrong about it. I don’t think we should stay here.”

                  Thorin looked around and she got the feeling that he was sensing the same thing. He frowned and a crease appeared above his brow.

                  “We have little choice.” He said, “They are exhausted. As are you. And saving my life again could not have helped.”

                  Even as he said it the truth of his words crept upon her like an incoming tide, and already she felt her eyes drooping. She slid down the cave wall into a sitting position, pulling her knees to her. On the one night they sorely needed a fire . . .

                  “I will not be able to sleep anyway.” Evaine said, her frown matching his, “Not here.”

                  After a moment, he sat down beside her.

                  “You do not think I treat the hobbit fairly.” He said, not looking at her.

                  “I think you treat him like you treat everyone you don’t trust.” Evaine said, leaning her head on the rough rock wall.

                  He looked at her, and his lips twitched.

                  “He does not throw it in my face as you do.” He said. “You detest me just as much as I do you.”

                  “I do.” Evaine conceded, “But at least that made it fair. The hobbit is actually intimidated by you.”

                  “His passivity makes him weak.”

                  “What it makes him, is nicer than either of us are capable.” Evaine snorted, “But I see something inside of him. A strength. He will prove himself.”

                  “You did.” Thorin said. It made her open her eyes. He still wasn’t looking at her. “Don’t fight your exhaustion, you’re no use to me sleepwalking.” He said, eyes twinkling. “Elf.”

                  She watched him and then chuckled and allowed the tide to finally wash over her, pulling her into a dreamless sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

                  Evaine was jolted from her slumber by the roar of Thorin’s voice, and directly after that, by the ground falling out from under her. Disheveled and disoriented, she screamed as all of them fell through the floor of the cave and rolled down a large tubular tunnel. They tumbled down the rocky path for several seconds before it opened up, and all of them were dumped into a crudely made cage.

                  “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Evaine growled savagely, shoving Bombur off of her.

                  “Goblins.” Thorin said, getting to his feet.

                  “Well they better hope they kill me fast.” Evaine struggled to her feet. Fatigue exaggerated every bruise, fracture and aching muscle in her body, but she shoved the pain down into the pit of her stomach, and unsheathed her swords. As soon as all of them had gained their bearings, they were rushed by goblins.

                  Goblins were neither stupid nor slow, like trolls, but their lack of coordination in battle made them an easy kill. Unfortunately, they discovered a way around this: they attacked in huge numbers, in a mob all at once, four or five to every one of their enemies.

Needless to say, though a dozen or so were tossed from the platform, dead, within the first wave, the dwarves were quickly overwhelmed. Their weapons were taken and the goblins all but carried them through the tunnels and across the rickety bridges, with all of them yelling and protesting every bit of the way.

                  They were led into what looked like the inside of a cavernous bee hive, lined from top to bottom with more goblins, sneering and cooing and hollering from their ramshackle platforms. In the center of the beehive, on a throne, sat the Goblin king, a hideous, gluttonous creature of sallow skin and ragged, greasy hair. He reminded Evaine of a fat toad, with a round belly and sagging chest that flowed directly into his round head.

                  Their captors dropped all of the company’s weapons with a clatter at their feet and left them to face the king.

                  “Who would dare come armed into my kingdom?” He thundered theatrically as he stood, black eyes glittering. “Spies? Thieves? Assassins?”

                  “Dwarves, Your Malevolence.” One of the goblins answered.

                  “Ahhh . . .” The king said, his eyes settling on Evaine. “But not all of them, I see. Come forth, _woodland elf_.”

                  There was a howl of contempt from the goblins around them, and Thorin made to step in front of her, but she stopped him.

                  “Better they know my name than yours.” She murmured, as she soldiered her way to the front of the pack.

                  “No. It’s not.” Thorin argued, firmly grabbing her hand.

                  “There’s no _time_.” She wriggled her hand from his grasp and moved to face the hideous creature fully.

                  “Well, well, well.” The Goblin king said, showing his gnarled teeth in a wicked smile. “Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, _Lady Evaine_.”

                  “I wish I could say the same.” She said coolly, looking up at him.

                  His eyes widened and his mouth came to form a perfect _O_ , earning cacophonous laughter from his subjects.

                  “Aye, she is a feisty one.” He said, amused and then reached his meaty hand out to grasp her chin, “How I would like to teach that pretty mouth some humility.”

                  “You try it, lad,” Dwalin growled from amongst the group, “And I’ll have your eyes ripped out and fed to you.”

                  She jerked away from the goblins grasp.

                  “Oh, my goodness!” The Goblin king said with a delighted laugh, “Oh, wait until the Lord Thranduil hears that his very own daughter is traveling with dwarves! Ha!” He relished in the flash of terror on her face and acquired a falsely somber sense of responsibility about him. “Nevertheless, I shall need to inform him immediately. Send word to the Elvenking!”

                  A small goblin that was strapped into a sort of swing mechanism scribbled something on a small piece of parchment and took off, whizzing away to convey the news. This was it. If Thranduil found out what she was doing there would be no passing through the Mirkwood forest.

                  Before the messenger goblin was out of sight, Evaine wrenched herself from the grasp of her captors, took up a battle axe from the pile of confiscated weapons and hurled it at the tiny moving target with deadly precision and frightening strength. The weapon lodged in the dead center of the creatures back, the force of the blow knocking him from his holster and he plummeted to the bottomless depths of the chasm.

                  There was a roar of alarm and fury from the horde of goblins that stood in the stands, and an even louder one from the Goblin king.

                  “SEIZE HER!” He roared. One of the goblins came at her and she reared up and kicked it in the chest, sending it flying from the small platform and plummeting to its death as well. She’d have easily taken out another if one of them had not taken its club to her face.

                  The blunt, round instrument connected with her jaw and nose with astronomical force, and sent her to the ground immediately, her vision erupting in something that could not be described by any color, but was somehow very dark and blindingly bright at the same time. Her mouth was filling with so much blood that she had to swallow it all to avoid choking on it, but her stomach lurched so violently, painfully, that she gagged and coughed it up. Dimly, and once her vision was returned to her, she could see something advancing on her.

                  “Enough.” Thorin said, and something in his voice chilled her to the bone. “I am the leader of this company, you will address me.”

                  Evaine could now see enough to catch the deviant glint in the Goblin kings eyes.

                  “Well, well, well!” The Goblin king said triumphantly, “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror--”

                  “Balin, Dwalin,” Thorin said, glancing back at them. “Get Evaine.”

                  “—King Under the Mountain,” The Goblin king continued, his tone mocking, “Oh, but I’m forgetting, you don’t have a mountain, do you?” There was a chorus of malicious laughter from the Goblins around him. “And you’re not a king! Which makes you . . . well . . . nobody, really.”

Thorin kept to his dignified silence, not an ounce of emotion betrayed his stony features.

                  “C’mon dearie.” A voice said gently in Evaine’s ear. Balin. “Why is it you’re always the first to get hurt?”

                  She would have laughed if she could manage it. But instead she shot Thorin a look, letting him know that she was alright. He gave the faintest of nods.

                  “I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head.” The Goblin king continued, obviously itching to get a rise out of Thorin. “A pale orc, astride a white warg.”

                  Thorin looked up. “Azog the Defiler was destroyed.” He said, his voice deathly quiet.

                  “Was he now?” The Goblin king challenged, his eyes alight with excitement. “Send word to the pale orc! Tell him we have found his prize!” And this time Evaine was in no shape to hurl any more weapons.

                  “Who is that?” Evaine asked Balin quietly, so only he could hear. Balin looked up, his expression grim with fear.

                  “Our worst nightmare.” Was all he said.

                  “It is the Pale Orc’s only goal, to wipe out the Line of Durin.” Dwalin said. Evaine looked from Thorin to Fili and Kili.

                  “What do we do, then?” Fili asked, looking to Dwalin and Balin for answers, clearly alarmed.

                  “We do not let that happen.” Evaine said, staring straight ahead. 

 

                  Though Evaine’s complete and total safety was guaranteed (at least until she was turned over to Thranduil), the rest of the company’s was not, and soon the Goblin king was ordering for all of them to be plundered and searched, their most precious possessions torn away from them, and various torture devices were being carried in.

                  Suddenly, one of the goblins shrieked and dropped Thorin’s elven blade to the ground. The rest of them, seeing it, jumped back as well.

                  “I know that sword!” The Goblin king said, clambering away from it and crushing several smaller goblins in his path, “Tis the Goblin-cleaver! The biter! The blade that slashed a thousand necks!” This seemed to mean a lot more to the goblins than it did to any of them, because there was a chorus of furious yelling and they were all being attacked again. “Slash them! Beat them! KILL THEM ALL!” He roared.

                  “Thorin!” Evaine screamed as he was torn from her side and tossed to the ground. She found an axe, one of Dwalin’s, and swung it at every goblin within reach of her. She was loosing count of how many she had killed and still they piled on, flooding in from the surrounding platforms, jumping down from above, some of them even appeared to spring right from the shaky floor below them. Soon, she could not help Thorin anymore than she could help herself.

                  “Cut off his head!” The Goblin king ordered to the goblin that was perched on Thorin’s chest, while at least four others held him down.

                  “NO!” Evaine shrieked, beating everything within reach in a vain hope to break free.

                  But she did not have to, there was a sudden, blinding light and a great force knocked them all off of their feet, sending goblins flying in every direction and their king sprawling on his back.

                  Through the dust and the semi-darkness, emerging from the shadows, Gandalf looked directly at the dwarves.

                  “Take up arms. Fight!” Gandalf said, “FIGHT!”

                  Their spirits renewed, the dwarves grabbed their weapons and began to fight back the onslaught of Goblins. All of them were a tad disoriented, but the Goblins were having a hard time getting back on their feet, making it a bit easier. Evaine simultaneously offered her hand to Thorin, helping him to his feet, and shoved her sword underneath his arm, skewering an oncoming Goblin. Back-to-back, she and Thorin fought, and as it was the first time they’d ever really fought as a team, it was the first time she realized how in-sync they truly were. Watching them fight was like watching two partners in a deadly dance. Two drastically different people, with drastically different methods in battle moving in perfect harmony.

                  In fact, all of them worked well together. For the others, maybe it was just that they were accustomed to fighting as a team, but Evaine was astonished by how well she fit in. It was as if she knew what they were doing before they were even doing it. And with all of them moving as a single unit, not even the Goblin King could stop them.

Gandalf took him down easily enough, slashing his throat with his sword, and causing the hideous creature to hit the bridge on which they were standing, lifeless. But added weight proved to be too much for the rickety contraption to handle, sending the entire bridge and everything on it sprawling into darkness. The only thing that saved them from being crushed was the narrowing of the chasm walls. The bridge caught on the rough stone boundaries enough to slow it before it finally hit the ground, all of the dwarves collapsing on top of each other.

                  “Well,” Evaine said, grunting as she slid out from under Bombur’s weight for the second time that night. “That wasn’t so bad--”

                  But she was interrupted by the crushing weight of the dead Goblin King falling on top of them.

                  “Oh, you had to say it, didn’t you?” Dwalin cursed her.

                  “ . . . right.” She said, letting her head fall back on the hard stone ground. She could almost sleep right there, she was so exhausted. But the universe was not quite done keeping her awake, it seems.

                  “Guys.” Came Kili’s alarmed voice. “Look!”

                  Evaine did not want to, she wanted to curl up and sleep through whatever danger they faced now. But she heard it anyway. The thumping of a million feet on stone, and the growling of thousands of goblins as they descended upon the group.

                  “There’s too many, we can’t fight them off!” Dwalin said as all of them struggled to their feet.

                  “Daylight will be the only thing to save us now. Run!” Gandalf said, ushering them all forward. They began to squeeze into a narrow passage, clearly not one that was travelled often by the goblins. Evaine could see, now, what they were sprinting for, the light of day shown up ahead from the mouth of the tunnel and she focused on that, pushing her exhausted body forward.

                  The sky was clear and the day warm, despite the storm that raged the night before, and Evaine was enjoying none of it. Bent over double, pain, exhaustion, relief and annoyance flooded her all at once. She was sure her face was not looking good, for she could see the beginnings of a nasty bruise forming at the edges of her vision.

                  “Fourteen! We’ve got all fourteen!” Gandalf said, relief clear in his features. “But . . . where is Bilbo? Where is our hobbit?”

                  “I thought I saw him slip away when we were first captured.” One of them spoke.

                  “Well then what happened exactly?”

                  “I’ll tell you what happened.” Thorin spat. “Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it. We will not be seeing our hobbit again.”

                  He was clearly soured by the news of the Pale Orc’s survival.

                  “I am sure that’s not true.” Evaine argued, placing a hand on his shoulder, but the comfort was clearly not welcome. He jerked away from her touch.

                  “Why?” Thorin rounded on her, looking for a fight, “Because you _believe_ in him? Because you _see something_ in him? He has thought of nothing but his warm hearth since he came on this quest, Evaine.” He spat “You’re childish faith will be what destroys us all.”

                  The shock and pain in her expression was immediately replaced by an icy glare.

                  “My childish faith in _you_ is what’s kept you alive this long, you great cantankerous moron.” Evaine snapped. “And I don’t believe the hobbit has left us because I’m _staring at him_.” She pointed to Bilbo, who had stepped out from behind the trunk of a tree only moments ago.

                  “Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf said, delighted. “I have never been so thrilled to see anyone in my life!”

                  Thorin glanced at Bilbo and then shot Evaine an annoyed look.

                  “Bilbo, we’d given you up!” Kili said.

                  “The line of Durin seems to have a habit of that today.” Evaine remarked, glaring openly at Thorin, who glanced at her, then at the hobbit, and then at the ground where he fixed his gaze.

                  “But . . . how?” Fili asked, “How did you do it?”

                  “How does not matter now.” Thorin said, looking up at Bilbo. “I want to know why.”

                  “Oh, don’t start-” Evaine said, but Thorin shushed her, actually shushed her. Her eyebrows shot up, and for a moment her hand twitched toward her sword.

                  Bilbo stared at Thorin for a moment, with an exasperated look.

                  “I know you doubt me, Thorin.” Bilbo said. “And you are right. I often think of Bag End. My books, my arm chair, my garden. That is where I belong. That is my home.” And then he looked around at all of them. “And that’s why I came back . . . Because you all don’t have a home, or a place to go back too whether this quest fails or not. It was taken from you.” He took a deep breath, as if he might deeply regret what he was about to say, “And I will help you take it back if I can.”

                  “Thorin--” Evaine began in a shaking voice, her face losing all of it’s color.

                  “Evaine I do not wish to fight.” Thorin said, though he had the good grace to sound like a guilty child.

                  She opened her mouth to try again, to warn them of the threat she had only just picked up, but the howling of wargs gave it away before she could speak.

                  “Out of the frying pan.” Thorin murmured, his head snapping in the direction of the noise along with the others.

                  “And into the fire. Run.” Gandalf said urgently. “RUN!”


	22. Chapter 22

Evaine could sense that this new danger was far more lethal than the ones they’d faced so far, and terror gripped her chest as she caught a glimpse of the sudden stop in the trees. A cliff. They were running right into a dead end.

                  “Kili! I need your bow!” Evaine said as they sprinted. They would have no choice but to fight, and she needed to give them the best chance.

                  “What?” He yelled.

                  “Just switch with me!” She shrieked.

                  He cursed and handed her his bow and a quiver of arrows, and she tossed him her swords.

                  “Evaine what are you doing?” Thorin said, running beside her.

                  “It’s a dead end. When you can no longer run, get as high in the trees as possible. I will pick off as many as I can before they get to you.” She said, just before reaching her hand up and catching a low branch in a large evergreen.

                  Hauling herself into the foliage, she climbed higher and higher until she found a good vantage point, from which she would be able to see the rest of the company and the oncoming wargs at the same time.

                  She was not as experienced with a bow as with anything else, but the gods must have been on her side, for her aim was strong. Kili only had about a dozen arrows left and all of them were quickly dispensed, landing with absolution in the thick skulls of the wargs. She’d killed twelve of their enemies—wargs and orcs alike—with twelve arrows, the best she could hope for, and still the probability of the whole company getting out of this unscathed seemed slim. Where twelve of their enemies went down, thirty more picked up the slack. She bit her lip against the gnawing feeling of something bad on the horizon, rapidly approaching, and focused on making her way to the rest of the group.

                 She jumped through the trees quickly loudly, caring little for indiscretion now, until she came to the trees that held the company, two tall pine trees situated at the very edge of the bluff, one so close to the edge that to fall from its branches would be to fall several hundred feet into the forest below.

                 “I was able to take down at least a dozen of them, but I fear I’ve only made a dent.” She said, leaping into the tree that also held Bofur, Bombur, Thorin, Oin, and Fili.

                 “And I cannot get us any help until at least dawn.” Gandalf said as the wargs stopped just short of the trees in which they resided. A booming voice spoke from the pack, and Evaine for the first time laid eyes on the Pale Orc.

                 His skin was sallow almost to the point of translucence, adorning scars as if they were decorations. He towered over the other orcs, with small eyes, a flat nose, and a mouth so thin that it looked like a scar itself, crooked and marred and lined with sharp, black teeth. He did not bother with armor, which the others were covered in, and he rode upon a monstrous warg of white fur.

                 In one muscular arm, he held a large iron mace. The other, which Thorin had severed upon their last encounter, had a large metal spike shoved through it, serving as a secondary weapon, which he never went without.

                 “ _Do you smell it?_ ” He murmured in Black Speech, in a voice like bones scraping against each other. “ _The scent of fear? I remember your father reeked of it . . . Thorin, son of Thrain_.”

                 “It cannot be.” Thorin said, a look of anguish on his face.

                 “Thorin . . .” Evaine’s voice was a breathless whisper as she stared down upon the orc, more terrible than any enemy she’d ever faced. She saw it in Thorin’s face, the thing that haunted him in his dreams, the reason for his distrust, his coldness, it was all on account of the monster standing in front of her.

                 “ _That one is mine . . ._ ” Azog spoke again, pointing with his mace at Thorin, “ _Kill the rest!_ ”

                 The wargs needed no further invitation. They were sprinting toward the trees as the dwarves clambered higher, pawing and scratching and snapping at any appendages that hung low enough. It was only moments before the first of the two trees to which the dwarves clung was toppling over, crashing into the second tree.

                 “Jump!” Thorin yelled. All of them did, into the only tree within reach, the tree that already held the remainder of the dwarves. This tree creaked with the added weight, and already it leaned dangerously.

                “Gandalf . . .” Evaine called up to him, looking at the landscape several hundred meters below her.

                “I know, Lady Evaine. We cannot wait for rescue.”

                She did not ask what he meant by that, only prayed to Mahal that there was some sort of help on the way, as he suggested.

                “What do you need me to do?” She asked, but he was already up to something. He plucked a pinecone from the tree and held it close to his staff. Evaine could make out a few tiny orange sparks before the cone flared to life, the inside alight with fire. Then, Gandalf threw it from the tree and it landed on the ground below with a shower of sparks, causing the fire to catch onto the dry grass, driving the wargs backward. “Brilliant.” She whispered, picking a pinecone from the nearest branch. “Toss it down here!”

                She caught the pinecone Gandalf dropped, ignoring the heat in her hands as it burned her flesh, and held it to her pinecone, letting the flame catch on.

                Thorin echoed her, “Give it here.” She handed him one and she threw the other, and then they were all passing cones back and forth, lighting them up. They rained down on the enemy, driving them away and making it impossible for them to reach the tree.

                The dwarves cheered, but all too soon. Evaine felt the tree releasing its hold on the earth before she saw it, the roots cracking, the tree whining in protest, and then they were toppling over sideways, the lot of them clinging helplessly to the branches as if it would do any good and screaming.

                The dwarves yelled in alarm as the force of the drop left some of them dangling, but by some miracle, the tree held on. Now, they were all hanging from the tree in it’s perfectly horizontal position, its roots barely grasping the dirt of the cliff.

                Evaine pulled herself up enough to wrap her legs around the trunk of the tree, but Kili was not so fortunate. He made a noise of alarm while his hands began to slip, and he tried desperately to grab on to something else, but there was nothing.

                 “KILI!” Fili yelled from somewhere to her right, closer to the cliff. Evaine noticed his struggle just as he lost his grip on the tree, and she dropped to grab his hand before he was lost to the rocks below. Now holding on with just her legs, Evaine grasped Kili’s arm with both of her hands.

                “Tell me something, Kili,” Evaine said, gritting her teeth against the pain as her flesh was pinched between her bones and the trunk of the tree. “Why is such an honorable bloodline so prone to near-death experiences?”

                He laughed, but she could see the fear in his eyes. A lot of times she did not take into account how young Kili was, merely a child by dwarf standards, far too young to be in such danger. He swallowed and his eyes shifted to look below him.

                “Don’t look down.” She said. And when he did not listen: “Kili.” He finally looked back up. “I’m not letting go.” She said reassuringly, the determination of her words alone strengthening her grip on the tree. “Just keep looking at me.” He nodded, his faith in her dulling his fear only slightly.

                “Kili! I’m coming! Just hold on!” Fili said, and Evaine felt the tree lurch dangerously as the dwarf moved to save his brother.

                “No! No one move!” Evaine shouted. “Fili, I’ve got him. If you move, you’ll uproot the tree completely and we’ll all be dead.”

                Fili knew she was right, but fear of losing his kin was clear in his eyes.

                “You can’t drop him.” Fili said, panic clear in his voice.

                “Really? I’m sure she never considered that.” Kili snapped, gritting his own teeth as her nails dug into his arm.

                “I’m not letting go of him, Fili.” Evaine puffed with effort.

                “THORIN, NO!” Dwalin screamed, making Evaine look up.

                How long had Thorin not been hanging beside her? How long ago had he climbed up to face off the Pale Orc? She’d been so occupied with Kili that she never noticed. Now, she was able to look up just in time to see the white warg’s jaws close on Thorin’s chest, its teeth penetrating his flesh, snapping his bones . . . He yelled out in pain and his sword fell from his hand and clattered to the ground.

                “No!” Balin cried, reaching out as if to pull him back to safety, but he was too far away. Ignoring what Evaine said about not moving, Dwalin tried to climb back up in order to help his brother-in-arms, but the branch snapped under his weight and he ended up barely catching himself. He was trapped, like the rest of them.

                Evaine watched as the Pale Orc regarded Thorin’s body, with animalistic triumph, and she felt a rage come over her like which she’d never felt. She lost all fear. The feeling that resided in her chest, the dark feeling of power and savage fury had risen in her throat and boiled over, and what was left in the aftermath was something she’d never expected.

                “Kili, I’m going to pull you up.” Evaine said calmly.

                Something about her voice deterred him and the others from arguing or asking questions, and in one swift, almost effortless movement, she hauled him up to where he could grasp a branch.

                “How-” He began to ask, securing his hold, but she was already pulling herself into a standing position on the skyward side of the trunk.

                “Evaine, what are you doing?” Gandalf called. She did not answer.

                As she advanced, she shrugged off her backpack, her sword sheathes, unclasped the holsters for her daggers, and shrugged off her cloak, letting all of them fall to the ground. She carried nothing on her but the clothes on her back and her mother’s chest plate wrapped protectively around her body.

                Bilbo had been the first to run to Thorin’s aid. Unconscious from pain and blood loss, Thorin laid on the ground while an orc advanced on him, sword raised with the intent to take off his head, only to be stopped by the little hobbit, who full-body tackled the creature and stabbed him in the chest. But Bilbo’s courage alone could not save them from the entire orc back, which was now advancing.

                “Run, Bilbo.” Evaine said, without looking at him. He seemed to not want to argue with her either, because he backed up.

                She bent down and pressed two fingers to Thorin’s throat. A faint pulse. He was still alive. She picked up his sword. Not the Elven blade, which he found in the troll horde and had used ever since, but his old blade, the rough-hewn dwarven sword he had held to her throat on the night they met. It still lay in a holster on his hip. She removed it and grasped the handle in her hand and felt it as an extension of her own body as she turned around to face the enemy.

                “Evaine . . .” Thorin’s voice came from behind her in a hoarse, bloody whisper. “Do not do this.”

                Her conscious self broke through for only a second, jolting at the lack of will in his voice. She wanted nothing more than to bring him comfort. But comfort was not what he needed now. Instead, she turned her attention to the second most prevalent desire in her head: to rip the Pale Orc’s heart from his chest.

                “Focus on breathing, Thorin.” She said coolly as she surveyed the creatures in front of her. “Just keep breathing.”

                Something incredibly dangerous in her eyes discouraged the wargs from attacking, even at their master’s command, so after they dismounted their pets, they descended upon her at once.

                It was like someone had pulled a lever and fire shot forth from her chest, molten gold running through her veins in the place of blood. She wielded the crude, heavy sword as if it were a weightless elven weapon. She was terrifying, unsettling, her savagery accentuating her luminous features in a most curious way. The skill and carnal energy she put forth was not anything she learned in the elven halls, nor was it a product of her dwarf ancestors. The fire within her poured from some archaic shelf of time, nursing an energy which had not been nursed by her kind in tens, hundreds, a thousand years, turning her flesh to molten metal, her eyes to hot coals, her breath to fiery spits. She was a dragon in herself.

                One by one she sunk the blade into the orcs which dared to challenge her. She was dimly aware of Fenris appearing by her side, joining her master in the fight, and with both of them fighting, the orcs fell like dominoes, their blood splattering her face, splattering Fenris’ fur as she brought revenge to the creatures that had once treated her so cruelly.

                All of the dwarves who could climbed up the tree and came to their aid as well. They all worked together driving the orcs back, protecting their king where he lay wounded. Even Bilbo had rejoined the fight. With them holding the others back, Evaine turned to the Pale Orc, who in turn had been advancing upon Thorin’s limp form. Her madness suddenly peaked at the sight of the repulsive creature looking down on Thorin as if he were a meal, at the memory of Thorin’s broken voice, at the thought of all of the pain this one entity had caused, and she shrieked in fury, her frame cutting through the turbulent air of the bluff. She cared not whether she alerted her prey of the attack, she did not bother dodging his weapons, merely lunged and swung her sword.

               Hot liquid which by now was familiar sprayed her face and arms, and the head of the white warg fell to the ground with a sickening thud, a crown of blood already forming in the spot where it lay. The headless creature toppled forward, lifeless, and its master was thrown off, his weapon skittering away from him as he toppled heavily to the ground.

               He looked at his dead pet, with its eyes still wide with shock, and let out a roar of fury. He did not have his weapon. He was vulnerable. Evaine began advancing on him, quickly and with a carnal grace, her own sword raised. One blow and it’s all over. She raised her weapon, licking her lips and tasting blood that was not her own.

               But then she was no longer on the ground. Something had gripped her and was yanking her higher into the air. Azog reached his blade and swung back at her, but she was already too high up, and he watched her with unguarded hatred as she ascended, screaming unintelligibly in his Black speech.

               It was Kili who had grabbed her, and pulled her onto the back of what looked to be an eagle the size of a grizzly bear.

               “I almost had him!” She said angrily as she settled behind him on the eagle, grabbing a fistful of his cloak to hold on to. He didn’t seem phased by the roar of her voice, nor frightened of her general state.

               “You save my life, I save yours.” He said, “We’re even.”

               She watched the scene below as the eagles circled. There were dozens of the giant birds, all swooping in and picking off orcs like they were nothing but mice, tossing them over the cliff. Then, they were picking up the dwarves, Thorin included, and carrying them to safety.

               Dawn had arrived, bringing with it the light of the sun in the east, not yet peaked over the horizon, but lightening the sky to a peaceful blue. There was no need for fire when the dawn came, and whatever rage had risen on the cliff began to recede, leaving plenty of room for all other emotion flood her.

               “ _Maiar_.” She murmured, horrified, and buried her face in Kili’s cloak.

               “I know.” Was all he said, was all he could say.

               After all, they had all witnessed what happened to her back there, whatever had come over her. She was not certain if she would be feared or commended or killed for her deeds, but one thing was certain: Whatever had happened to her on the edge of that cliff was nothing from any Elven teaching, or Dwarvish bloodline, and it was not over.

 


	23. Chapter 23

                 Thorin lay on the ground, barely conscious, and with smeared blood dribbling from his parted lips. For a terrible moment, Evaine felt as if she were staring down at him as he lay in his own grave, and in consequence the surge of terror she felt surged her into action. 

                  "Thorin?" She said, in as calm a voice as she could manage. She parted his jacket, unclipped his belt, and carefully moved aside as many layers of clothing as she could without jostling him, though she was still left with his tunic and undershirt to examine through. "Thorin, can you hear me?"

                   No reply. Evaine licked the dryness from her lips. 

                   "No. No, no, no, no, no..." She mumbled, trying desperately to remember anything she had learned from the healers in Mirkwood. It had been so long ago . . . "Gandalf! I don't think he's breathing, you've got to do something." 

                  Distantly, she sensed Gandalf's presence as he strode up behind her and then skirted around Thorin's body and knelt down on his other side. 

                   "Thorin?" Gandalf asked calmly.

                  "I already tried that." Evaine said, her patience fringing. Couldn't he see that they were running out of time?

                   Gandalf studied Thorin's form pensively, a crease forming on his brow, and Evaine ground her teeth. Deciding that Gandalf would be no help, she busied herself checking Thorin's wounds. Immediately upon laying her hand flat on his chest she breathed a small breath of relief. There was definite swelling around his ribcage, and she did not know if she could bear to look at the bruises that would likely be found there, but no bones were broken. Fractured perhaps, but not broken. Still, her hands were already slick with his blood from the dozen or so wounds the warg’s teeth had left.

                  " _Maiar_ , Thorin." She whispered in anguish.

                   This seemed to provoke Gandalf, for he finally moved, gently pushing her hands out of the way, and she had to stop herself from striking at the old wizard.

                   "Evaine." He said, in a sharper tone than he’d ever used with her. She glared at him as she removed her hands, and he closed his eyes. He moved his hands over Thorin's  body, one of them wielding his staff, and spoke in a deep rumbling voice, a language she could not understand. 

                   It took only a moment for Thorin to heave a great sigh. Then, he seemed to really wake, his eyes flying open, eyebrows scrunching as he coughed and tried to sit up, but she placed her hand on his chest.

                  "Easy." She said softly, “You’re hurt.”

                   "Nonsense.” He barked, pushing her hand away. “The Halfling, where is he?”

                   Gandalf took over at this point and Evaine sighed.

                   Shaking her head, she stood, and strode through the gaggle of dwarves and away from the group, taking a moment for herself. She moved over to the edge of the boulder and placed her hands on her knees, breathing deeply. They were all alive. She was trembling with aches and the exhaustion that came with not sleeping for several nights in a row, and covered in dirt and tree sap and blood—both black and red—that was not her own. But they were all alive, and the warm sun on her face made it difficult not to feel elated, but her irritation at Thorin, fatigue, and exhaustion made it easier. Curling up in the rocks, she rested her head on her knees and zoned out of all that was going on behind her. 

                   “Well, what do we do next?” One of the dwarves asked, once Thorin made amends with Bilbo and all conversation had died down.

                   “Well, that would be up to Evaine.” Thorin said loudly, rousing her from her half-unconscious state. She turned her head and squinted up at them.

                  “What?” She asked, now too tired to even be angry that they had woken her. Dimly she realized that her voice was cracking with exhaustion.

                  “What Gandalf did was only a temporary fix, you see.” Thorin explained, his voice lighter than she’d ever heard it. “I still need medical attention.”

                  “And you think I should be the one to do that?” She asked hysterically, standing. “Thorin, there are _trolls_ more equipped to tend your wounds.”

                  He chuckled, “But I want you, Princess.” 

                  And there, he saw, just a bit, beneath bruising and blood, the armored girl softened. Just a little. 

                  “Of course, My King.” She said quietly, unable to fully hide the emotion in her voice. 

                  The more clueless of the dwarves were gaping openly at the two of them and the deeply intimate look they were sharing, while the others were beaming knowingly at each other.

                  “Then it is settled.” Thorin said, eyes shining. “Evaine of the Woodland Realm, I place you in charge of this company—myself included—until I am in prime health once more. My men are at your disposal.”

                  If the dwarves were shocked at Thorin’s words before, it was nothing compared to now. Thorin falling to fancy an Elven lady was highly unlikely. The chances of him relinquishing control, yielding his authority to another were about nonexistent. Still, they looked uncertain for only a moment before squaring up and facing Evaine.

                  “Orders, my Lady?” Dwalin asked, a smile that was almost proud twitching on his lips.

                  She choked back a wave of emotion that she felt and instead beamed at them.

                  “Gandalf,” She said officially, mimicking Thorin’s stormy tone, and making all of them share an amused look. “How long until the dwarf’s condition worsens?”

                  “I would say Master Thorin has at least a few hours before his health begins to decline.” Gandalf answered courteously.

                  “Well then, there’ll be no time to waste.” She said decisively and turned to the company. “We’ll need to find somewhere secure to set up camp, for a few days at least. Somewhere near a river or a spring. And I shall need a few of you to collect the necessary herbs for healing.”

                  “You heard the king.” Thorin said, smirking at her, “Get moving!” The company took action at once, Evaine leading them down the stone platform that the eagles had dropped them on and into the forest. Thorin watched her all the way, and thought to himself what a queen she would make, standing beside him in the halls of his fathers.

 

\-- **END OF PART ONE** \--

Part Two to be posted shortly, thank you all so much for reading! 


	24. PART TWO

Part Two of There and Back again has been posted on my profile!! It's called To the Ends of the Earth. Thank you all for your support, go check it out!!


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